THE MAID OF MADRID
I was Luna, and I had to perform.
Back at the Alarcón mansion, Mateo was pacing the length of his bedroom. The champagne was gone, replaced by a tumbler of neat Scotch, but the alcohol wasn't doing anything to calm the fire in his blood. He kept pulling the dark silk panties from his pocket, running his thumb over the lace. The memory of how she had wound her waist against his thighs, the fierce, angry power in her movements, was driving him insane. He had never met a woman who took his money and then looked at him with such cold defiance.
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