Matador, Mi Amor. William Maltese

was hurt, but he didn’t want to take any chance of making him worse by moving him. If only he had gotten back to the hacienda earlier, he might well have stopped things from having gone this far.

      Damn—Adriano should have known he was playing with dynamite when he killed those bulls! If he knew nothing else, he had to know how these men idolized those animals. Bulls were these men’s lives. To kill one of the bulls, let alone five of them, before even one of them could meet its natural end amid the pomp and circumstance of the corrida de toros, was sacrilege. Adriano Montego was lucky he wasn’t dead. He might well have been if Ramón hadn’t arrived when he did.

      “Yes, of course, you’re right. We mustn’t move him,” Alyssa said, wondering whatever had possessed her even to suggest doing so. How many first-aid courses had she taken in her life wherein it had constantly been drilled into her as to just how dangerous it could be to move any victim before qualified medical help arrived on the scene?