The musicians left the stage, and a single guitarist moved a chair out front. As the tourists returned to their tables, he began strumming one of Maggie’s favorite flamenco tunes, but she was so surprised to see Rafael walk away alone that for a long moment, the change in music didn’t register. Apparently a friend of the guitarist, Rafael leaned down to speak with him, then moved aside to lean back against the stage. He folded his arms across his chest and scanned the room.
Ashamed to find the abrasive man so appealing, Maggie dipped her head and turned toward Santos. “This is obviously a popular place. Thank you for bringing me here.”
“You’re welcome.” While looking for the twins, he noticed Rafael and shook his head. “It’s too popular tonight. I’ll grant you Rafael Mondragon can move well, but so does a cobra.”
Maggie licked her lips and took a sip of the soda she and the twins had ordered. The girls came back to join them and began eyeing young men at a nearby table. Santos had told her the twins were thirteen, but in the dim light, they could easily pass for several years older.
“Do you bring Perry and Connie here often?” she asked.
Santos frowned. “You don’t approve?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just…” A shadow crossed their table, and without looking up, she could feel Rafael’s heat. Her breath caught in her throat, and her gaze skidded up his shirt buttons to his face, but Rafael’s insolent glare was focused on her half brother.
“I would like your permission to dance with one of your sisters,” he asked with a mock bow.
Magdalena caught herself before her mouth fell open, but it was such an old-fashioned request, and especially so after the performance Rafael and his women friends had just given on the dance floor. Assuming he must be referring to one of the twins, she was about to urge Santos to refuse when Rafael reached for her hand. Equally amazed, Santos came out of his chair, but Maggie raised her free hand to wave him off.
Rafael’s request must have been a dare, a provocation to win the attention Santos wished to avoid. He couldn’t have known she’d studied flamenco, so his intention must also have been to embarrass her. Sh
e didn’t appreciate being used as a pawn in their rivalry. It was not only a ridiculous stunt, but also one that could also have the potential for cruelty.
She regarded him with a sweet, innocent smile. “I’d love to dance.” He led her out to the now vacant dance floor, but when he pulled her against his side and tapped his heels in rhythm with the low, rolling melody of the guitar solo, she was more than ready for him. Her skirt had no ruffled tiers but was cut with graceful gores, and she grabbed hold to swing the soft fabric with her moves.
Rather than step away, she brushed her shoulder across Rafael’s chest and raised her free hand above her head as though she held castanets. She kept no more than a whisper’s width between them and matched his steps with a striking ease. The resulting applause from the crowd threatened to drown out the music, but even when Rafael changed his rhythm, she followed with a graceful flair. She kept her glance lowered in a shyly feminine yet utterly seductive pose.
Rafael was very good, certainly the equal of any partner she’d ever had back home, but she danced with a free-spirited abandon and dared him with every gesture to give more. While Rafael may have drawn greater attention from the crowd as the dance began, a quick glance showed her the tourists were also applauding her. She wished she had her dancing shoes and castanets, or at the very least a fan, but even without her usual props, she worked to create a breathtaking romantic illusion.
She’d been drawn to flamenco not only because it was from Spain but because it set to music the ancient ritual of an aggressive man’s pursuit and a woman’s graceful reluctance to surrender. Her every step and turn offered a tantalizing glimpse of an ecstasy she kept maddeningly out of reach. As the guitarist strummed the final chord, she wondered what they could have done with a little time to rehearse.
Her usual partner would have brought the spellbinding dance to its natural conclusion with a feigned kiss, but as she raised her gaze to Rafael’s, his expression was more murderous than affectionate. She laughed as though the whole number had been a deliberate tease and turned away to walk to her table, but he reached out to catch her elbow and drew her back.
The crowd seemed to believe the enormously entertaining couple were merely continuing their dance and shouted for an encore, but with Rafael’s firm grip on her arm, Maggie had had enough. “Thank you for the dance,” she offered in a pleasant tone, then whispered, “Unless you truly enjoy being kneed in the groin, let me go.”
She could see the puzzlement her question caused and wondered if his English weren’t nearly as fluent as he wished everyone to believe. She was about to repeat her demand in simpler terms when he released her and stepped back. She didn’t wait for the gentlemanly compliment she was positive he wouldn’t pay and with 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.”