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Chapter One

California 1846

Frozen in battle, the bull and the man eyed each other.

"Toro, toro." Borne on the wind, the sound of the man's voice wafted to Katherine, as sweet as if he called a lover, deep, low and coaxing.

Against the twelve-hundred pounds of belligerence, Damian de Ia Sola stood armed with a red cape: velvet, with fine embroidery and a shredded hem. The whipcord strength of his shoulders strained against the seams of his smudged white shirt. He stood, one tanned hand on his hip, as if the bull were insignificant, not worthy of his consideration. Katherine noted the hand, dark, capable. She noted the hip, and heat brought a flush to her cheek.

He was well formed-beautifully formed.

He cracked the cape held tightly in the other hand.

She jumped; the lack of reality wrapped her round. The drama in the corral possessed her. She stood as silent and as intense as any who sat in the stands. The sun of midday almost blinded her. The restless California wind stirred the dust in the corral, and the scent drifted to her nostrils. It mingled with the stronger smell of the bull, crafty, aware, almost too clever for the man who faced death-taunted death.

The cape cracked again. The bull exploded from standstill to a full gallop. He flew at Damian, who barely moved to let the animal by. The bull passed beneath his arm with inches to spare. As if she stood inside the corral, Katherine felt the brush of death on the sensitive skin of her arm. She felt the pounding of the earth beneath her feet.

The combatants froze, evaluating each other with new appreciation.

Katherine loosened the topbutton of her dress. Despite the mild March temperature, sweat trickled down her back and tickled her forehead; dust devils swirled, but not a creature moved. She didn't understand what made her so warm.

It couldn't be anxiety. She was Katherine Chamberlain Maxwell of Boston, and she was a sensible woman. She understood that when a man chose such a hazardous pursuit, the consequences were his own responsibility. So it couldn't be anxiety that made her clutch the wooden rail so tightly splinters dug into her palm.

In the stands, the senoras' fans drifted to and fro as they tried to cool their faces and their excitement. The rustle of their fans blended with the snap of the cape, but Damian paid them no heed; nor did Katherine. She focused all her attention on the beast and the warrior.

She had seen this bull before, many times. He was a prize stud. The warm, rich brown of his coat reminded Katherine of cocoa, of the thick sweet mud of springtime between her toes. His nose looked velvety. His eyelashes made a pretty fringed arc on his face.

She had seen Damian before, many times. The beauty of his pure, classical bone structure reminded her of a Greek god. His high forehead was swept clear by the wind that caressed him. Below the ridge of his brow, his eyes were set deep, lending him a scholarly thoughtfulness. His nose was long and noble. Welldefined cheekbones revealed sensitivity; his square jaw revealed determination. His was the face of civilization, of poetry, of philosophy.

But it was an illusion. It was all an illusion.

The bull was a competitor, a fighter by instinct and a gladiator by chance.

The man was a conqueror, intent on proving his superiority in primitive conflict.

The crowd sighed, and Katherine heard a first hushed call. "Ole, torero. Ole!" It sounded like encouragement of the brutal sport, but she couldn't tear her eyes from the corral to frown her disapproval. Staring fixedly at Damian, she saw him stomp his foot. She heard the small sound of provocation, saw the little puff of dust it raised and how it spooked the beast.

"Ole! Show us your colors, my son!"

That did make her glance aside. Damian's father held a fist to the sky, proud as the devil, proud of his son.

"Stupid," she said, disgusted with Don Lucian, with the bullfight, with the whole barbaric display. Her comment was whisked away on the wind.

As if Don Lucian's encouragement released them from restraint, everyone erupted in the blast of cheering. The women came to their feet, the men surged forward, and from every throat roared, "Ole. Ole, torero!"

The bull responded with arrogance. His ears pointed skyward. His head swayed to the rhythm of the cheers as he studied Damian and the tattered cape. Walking in a circle, the bull acknowledged the crowd, then came to a stop facing his opponent. His eyes fixed on the gold metal gleaming around Damian's neck. His head lowered.

The razor-sharp horns reached for Damian, for his stomach, his chest, but Damian never retreated. With flicks of the cape, he lured the beast in. He evaded him by a hairbreadth. The bull made a swift running turn and raced back.

Damian stood there, prepared, disdainful. His passes were precise. He stayed tuned to the moods of the beast, not hearing the screams of the crowd, moving the cape with the sweeping sensuous dance of the bull.

The game was horrible and graceful and free. Katherine could see the beauty, but more than that, she could smell danger. Watching Damian's straight back, his small, confident smile as he turned his head, she wanted to leap into the corral and stop the nonsense.

The bull leaped and whirled, coming straight at Damian and not at the distraction he waved. Damian laughed,. tossed the cape aside, and waited.

Katherine wanted to cover her face with her hands, but she couldn't move. All was silent; no fans fluttered. Damian reached over with his hands. Slowly, yet in a blur of speed, he grasped the horns. The bull lifted his head. Damian tucked and somersaulted over the broad back. Landing on his feet beside the astonished animal, he raised his hands high and bowed...