Felicia flushed from cheek to chest. The points of her nipples peaked through the silk of her robe. She put down her glass with a clatter and stood, turning toward the house. Fernando followed after her, back inside and up the grand staircase. His eyes bore into her from behind. When she snuck a glance

Fernando returned several times to the Hollywood house in Antigua. As Felicia had said, Mondragón was never there. With its grandiose stylings and furnishings, its garage of sportscars and motorcycles, its pools and palms and flamingos, its silent maids and sleek silver hounds, the place had the look and feel of a poor boy’s playground

Felicia craved direction. Whether this was her nature or simply the result of her circumstances was difficult to say, but Fernando suspected the latter. This made her uninteresting to him fairly quickly. There was always excitement with a new woman, the novelty of seeing them exposed for the first time. To Fernando this wasn’t necessarily

Fernando would have to begin again, distancing himself from her. There were many ways he could accomplish this. The goal was to wean Felicia off him without provoking her to hysterics. Fernando enjoyed playing with women. He even enjoyed tormenting them a little—but to cause them real pain was never his intent. Women’s tears of