her head held high, left the dance floor alone.
"What did he say to you?" Santos asked as she reached their table.
"Nothing. Apparently, I left him speechless."
"Will you teach us to dance, Magdalena? Our mother only sends us to ballet," Perry said.
If she remembered correctly, their mother was the opera star. "Ballet is always a good place to start," she responded.
"That's what she always says," Connie murmured. "But we want to learn flamenco and the tango. Do you know the tango too?"
"Yes," Maggie replied. She could tell from Santos's teasing smile that he'd urge her to teach the twins any dance they pleased just to spite their mother. It would only be dancing after all, she told herself. She glanced over the twins' heads to look for Rafael, but he'd disappeared.
Santos gave Ana Santillan a last kiss, rolled over on his back and propped his hands behind his head. "Magdalena was magnificent," he swore. "She didn't just dance. She was the spirit of flamenco itself. You should have been there."
"My God," Ana cried. "You've fallen in love with your own sister. That's disgusting." She pushed off the bed and strode across the room with the same insolent confidence that had made her one of fashion's highest paid haute couture models. She slipped on a paisley silk dressing gown and knotted the belt so loosely it gaped open to provide an ample glimpse of her well-toned body. She refilled a delicate crystal flute with the last drops of the champagne Santos had brought and tossed them down her throat. "And I don't disgust easily."
"Obviously not," Santos agreed with an amused chuckle, "or you wouldn't be sleeping with your lover's son."
"Evil bastard. You know I'm no longer Miguel's mistress." She returned to the bed, crawled up over the end and glared down at him.
Santos licked his lips to savor the last traces of her taste. "Through no fault of your own," he chided. Her green eyes narrowed at the insult, but she remained poised above him. He wasn't afraid of her frown. "Why don't you compare my father and me? You're angry enough."
Ana dipped her head to trail the tips of her long, tawny hair across his bare chest. "There's no comparison between you and Miguel."
Santos loved the feel of her body against his. He loved every ounce of her - her perfumed hair, silken skin, lacquered nails and delicious lips. He remained still beneath her. "No two men are exactly the same," he breathed out in a contented sigh.
Ana moved astride his hips. "I didn't say you were the same, and that's enough of such a tiresome subject."
He slid his hands into her robe and ran his fingertips over the soft swell of her breasts. They were her own rather than surgically enhanced and fit his palms perfectly. "All right. You really should have been with me tonight. How long do I have to wait for you to appear in public with me?"
She thumbed his nipples. "Not yet. It would embarrass your father, and he doesn't deserve it at such a sad time. Now tell me what Rafael Mondragon thought of your American sister."
"I didn't pay any attention to him and neither did anyone else. Magdalena simply mesmerized the crowd."
"And sent you running for my bed," Ana countered.
Santos wound his hands in her hair to pull her toward him. When their lips were a whisper apart, he asked, "Would you rather have had Mondragon tonight?"
Ana stared at him a moment too long, and, unwilling to provide her with more time to contemplate another man's affections, he rolled over and pinned her beneath him. "I should have given you back to my father months ago."
His lips burned hers with a searing kiss, and she wrapped her legs around his thighs to welcome his thrusts, but he knew as long as his father was alive, he'd be in the bed with them. Even after Miguel died, Santos feared his ghost would haunt them still.
Chapter Five
Maggie joined her father at the small table on his balcony for a breakfast of freshly baked biscuits and melon slices. It was the Spanish custom to begin the day with a small meal followed later with the more substantial fare of an omelet or sandwich. She sipped her cafe con leche and sampled a few biscuit crumbs.
"The sea is a beautiful woman," Miguel swore. "I love her in all her moods - violent, serene, brooding. Had I not wanted to follow my father into the bullring, I would have