Lush Money (Filthy Rich)

by Angelina M. Lopez

  It was too much.

  With her heart beating a terrorized rabbit pace in her chest, she wriggled out from under him and to her side, facing away, and he let her. But when he pulled her back against him, when he locked her thigh over his bent leg and shoved effortlessly back inside of her, caging her against his body while he turned her chin up for the deepest of kisses, she panicked that this might even be worse.

  All conscious thoughts of worse or better scattered as he thrust inside her like he couldn’t get deep enough. Roxanne tilted back her hips, wanting him deeper. Unheeded cries began to burst from her throat as Mateo fucked her like he was trying to tattoo himself on her skin. The iron headboard twanged against the wall; Mateo gripped the sheet, popping it off the mattress as he ground against her, the fingers of his free hand rubbing her slit while he whispered filthy, reverent words into her skin.

  Roxanne started to come. White heat tore her like a blinding rocket launch and her mouth fell wide, no sound able to come out as her body shrieked into orgasm. She was coming, trapped and coming as Mateo pounded, deep and fast, gritting against the convulsions of her pussy around him, and Roxanne realized he wasn’t slowing down, he wasn’t stopping, and her body spasmed against the mangled bedcovers, and Mateo, when he saw her trying to escape the unending orgasm, he started to laugh, his golden eyes wild as he kept her head tilted up to him. He started to laugh and laugh, and he jerked and she knew it was happening to him, too, this impossible orgasm, and he was still laughing and coming and holding her thigh open and fucking, fucking, fucking into her until every crevice of her body was singing and screaming and begging with the pleasure he was giving it, his laughter—his joy and satisfaction at this whirlwind they’d created together—ringing in her ears.

  * * *

  Roxanne came out of the doze she’d collapsed into at the feel of Mateo unbuckling her heels and slipping them and her panties off her feet. She was on her back, sprawled across the bed, and facing the open window. Through it, she could see green grape vines hanging off the portico and a slice of rich blue sky. A hawk shrieked in the distance, a welcome predator to keep away the rodents and small birds that would feast on the vines’ fruit and roots.

  The springs of the old mattress squeaked as Mateo settled back on the bed. He didn’t touch her.

  “You looked like a queen when you got off the plane.” His voice was deep and rich in the quiet room. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said softly, trailing a finger through her now loose hair as she continued to gaze out the window. Her skirt, she realized, had been pulled down to cover her thighs.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t wait.” His breathing was so heavy it could have lulled her right back to sleep. “You deserve better.”

  She smiled to herself as she twirled the strand of hair around her finger. “I don’t think I can survive anything better,” she said.

  The mattress shifted as if the weight of his anxiety floated away. Then Mateo chuckled softly and slid a hand across her stomach. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, closer, his breath brushing her neck. “I was afraid I was going to throw you down on the tarmac.”

  “What about the contract?” she asked, seeing the vine leaves flutter in the breeze, feeling the same cooling touch against her skin. Her brain was slow but not so sluggish that it didn’t process the meaning of having sex on their first day together. Was Mateo willing to forgo their day of chitchat? She hadn’t—and wouldn’t—agree to having sex outside of their contractual three days a month. She’d been clear about that.

  “I’ll keep my hands off you tomorrow.” His hands gripped into her waist. “Somehow.”

  She was too sated, too floating, to argue with him right now.

  “How long are you staying?” he asked.

  She wondered if she’d ever seen a sky this blue before. “A week.” She wondered how sluggish his brain was. Did he process the meaning of that decision?

  The old mattress complained as Mateo hooked his arm around her waist to pull her to him and snuggle her against his long, warm, engulfing body. “Good,” he said, forcing Roxanne to close her eyes against the blue sky as her world became the soft, consuming touch of his lips against her neck.

  April: Night One

  Part One

  Roxanne pulled the eyeliner pencil away from her face and said a quick prayer for patience as Sofia lolled on a nearby settee in a fluffy cocktail dress and continued to list in exacting detail every woman that Mateo ever dated.

  “And then there was Victoria in college. She was una rubia. Did I tell you that Mateo always preferred blondes?”

  Roxanne gritted her teeth in the vanity mirror. “You’ve mentioned it.”

  “Victoria was studying to be a doctor. She works with Doctors Without Borders now. Can you imagine living in a hut, saving people’s lives, sacrificing yourself for others?” Sofia bobbed her Manolo on the end of her toe as she spoke. “Mateo always said she was la mujer perfecta.”

  Roxanne put down the pencil before she stabbed herself in the eye with it. “She couldn’t have been that perfect since they’re no longer together.”

  “I think he wore her out,” Sofia said smugly. “Couldn’t keep his hands off of her. I’d stay at the other end of el Castillo when they were visiting. Their screams and groans, I was afraid the castle walls were going to come tumbling...”

  “It makes no difference to me who your brother has dated,” Roxanne said, smiling poison at Sofia in the oval vanity mirror. “He could have screwed every woman between here and Madrid. I don’t care. That’s why we have this little arrangement—so we can have a kid without sharing messy personal details.”

  Mateo brought her to this six-hundred-year-old castle, introduced her to the kind chatelaine and her five-person staff, and then led her to one of the guest suites so she could shower and change. She’d come out of the bathroom to the welcome sight of her makeup kit and gown, delivered by her own staff, and the unwelcome sight of Sofia lounging in the bedroom. Roxanne had already dried and arranged her hair, so couldn’t even depend on the roar of the hair dryer to give her a break.

  Meeting the king and queen was going to be hard enough without Sofia winding her up.

  “Did he tell you about his vineyard manager?” Sofia asked, her darkly lined eyes lasering in on Roxanne in the mirror. “The woman who’s overseeing the Tempranillo Vino Real here in the Monte? He used to screw her all the time. And they’ve been spending muchísimo time together since he’s been home.”

  Shit. That one landed. Roxanne began applying her blush.

  “She’s older than he is,” Sofia continued. “And so beautiful. I’m not certain, but I think she helped him lose his virginity. He spent the whole summer after he turned eighteen at her house next door. He’d come home with the dumbest grins on his face.”

  Twin talons of arousal and jealousy clawed through her. She could imagine a sun-kissed eighteen-year-old Mateo, stretched out on a woman’s bed, shivering as the woman made love to him. As his now-vineyard manager made love to him.

  Roxanne let none of her irritation show on her face and smiled into the mirror. “I’ve seen that grin on his face,” she said, letting her eyes simmer. “There was one time that I was on top of him and...”

  Sofia sat up, her stiletto dropping to the floor. “Que asco. ¡Cállate!”

  “What’s wrong?” Roxanne said, whipping around to face her, her silk robe slithering against the brocade of the stool. “I thought we were discussing your brother’s sex life. I figured you’d like to hear some of my stories.”

  “You’re disgusting,” Sofia sneered.

  “And you’re a pain in my ass,” Roxanne shot back. “Why are you in here? What do you want from me?”

  The girl glowered at Roxanne. “I want you to let my brother out of the contract.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” Roxa
nne said, trying to reach through her irritation to her empathy. Sofia was five years younger and even through the princess’s tough-girl look—she’d wrapped up her hair in a high messy bun and wore a strapless black-and-white cocktail dress that highlighted the bloodred “The Queen is Dead” tattoo down her forearm—Roxanne could see her vulnerability. Sofia was truly worried about her brother.

  “You don’t like me and I haven’t given you much reason to,” Roxanne said, trying to breathe calm into her words. “But I’ve apologized to your brother and I’m sincerely trying to make things better. Mateo believes me. I wish you would, too. As soon as I’m pregnant, I will be out of your hair. You’ll never have to see me again.”

  If anything, her words only made the princess angrier.

  “That’s the problem!” Sofia said, standing and kicking off the stiletto that made her lopsided. “Don’t you see that the last thing my brother needs is a wife and child without any strings attached?”

  Roxanne looked up at Sofia, nonplussed and a little impressed by her fury.

  “You know he doesn’t come home anymore,” Sofia said.

  “He’s trying to avoid your father—”

  “No.” Sofia dismissed her with a wave of a hand. “That’s what he tells himself. But it’s more than that. He ignores the needs of his people. He avoids...su familia.” Since Mateo seemed to have almost no involvement with his mother, the only familia Sofia could be referring to was herself. “He still thinks I’m a rebellious sixteen-year-old.”

  Roxanne heard the ache in the girl’s words. “Your brother admires you very much.” And he did. There’d been undisguised pride as Mateo told Roxanne about his baby sister, about how Princesa Sofia had been a special thorn in her parents’ royal sides, smoking in her convent school at ten, eschewing princess wear for oversized jeans and white tank tops as a young teen, and getting a tattoo of the Smiths album title “The Queen Is Dead” scrawled across her forearm for her eighteenth birthday. Roxanne had wondered how that same girl had graduated with a degree in enology from the University of Bordeaux and was apprenticing for a winemaker in Rioja. She realized now that there might have been some gaps in Mateo’s storytelling that had allowed Roxanne to believe Sofia had partied her way into a role that required exhausting work, scientific precision, and deep academic study.

  His wild child of a sister had become a focused twenty-four-year-old woman without Mateo realizing it.

  “He isolates himself in California,” Sofia continued, her hands moving wildly. “He would rather deal with hard, brown sticks than people. He is kind, funny, intelligent, gorgeous...and yet he hasn’t had a girlfriend since Cornell. I don’t know why he keeps himself so—” Sofia wrapped her arms around her tightly bound waist. “...obstruido. I don’t know what he’s so afraid of.”

  Seeing the weariness hanging off those lovely, caramel-colored shoulders, Roxanne wondered how much Mateo’s absence had forced Sofia into the role of intermediary and caretaker. Sofia was asking for her help to unlock the puzzle of Mateo. It was a task that Roxanne absolutely did not want.

  “He’s busy...” she said ineffectually.

  Sofia scoffed and slapped one hand against her thigh. “Yes, too busy to notice his people, his sister, and the billions of women who would kill to have a man like him. Too busy to be a real prince, find a real wife, and enjoy the real love that he deserves. You smacked at his sense of nobility with this contract, but truly, I think he loves it. He stays separate and alone and still gets an heir and a wife. You’re giving him what he wants and nothing that he needs.”

  Roxanne was flabbergasted by the idea that Mateo could unwittingly be getting out of this arrangement exactly what she wanted out of it: a child with no emotional entanglement. He’d been so disgusted by her proposal, so adamant about his higher ideals. Part of her had admired him for simply being a better person than she was, for acknowledging the impact her plan would have on a future human being, their child. But to think that he actually wanted to avoid the same unwanted emotions that she was working to avoid made him her compatriot. Put him on the same lower, selfish, realistic level that she was on.

  It was another tie that connected a Spanish prince with a rural girl who’d counted on free school lunch for her daily meal.

  “I’m alone. I’m isolated,” Roxanne said, standing. “Most people dedicated to their career are. What about you? I imagine if you had a man and a huge collection of friends you wouldn’t have spent the last month dreaming of ways to ambush me.”

  Sofia huffed. “I’m not...”

  Roxanne waved her off. “I know. I’m kidding.” As Sofia settled down, Roxanne had a glimpse of how much fun you could have messing with a younger sibling.

  “It’s true, I don’t have much of a social life,” Sofia said, drawing herself up like the princesa she was. “The best wine apprenticeships are competitive, and you must dedicate yourself to the learning entirely if you want the best winemakers to accept and recommend you.”

  “So you probably have never been in love either.”

  Roxanne instantly regretted the throwaway statement when she saw the shock of pain blanch the woman’s face. Sofia pressed her hand to her stomach and looked away.

  “Oh God,” Roxanne opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say other than, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Sofia demanded, her face still turned away. And then, Roxanne knew she should be shot on the spot. The young woman raised her hand to her face, as if wiping away tears.

  She couldn’t leave her just standing there. “Oh God,” Roxanne said again, rushing to her sister-in-law. Yes, Sofia was her sister-in-law. “I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry.” She touched Sofia’s shoulder.

  The woman wiped again and then turned to face Roxanne. “No, I’m the idiot. Mierda.” Her dark eyes were misty pools as she cursed. “It was so long ago. I can’t believe I’m crying. I can’t believe I’m crying in front of you!”

  Roxanne smiled miserably, still hanging on to Sofia’s shoulder. “I’m good at bringing out sadness in people.”

  Sofia’s scoffing laugh still carried traces of tears in it. But at least it was a laugh.

  “Do...do you want to talk about it?” Roxanne asked, not believing she was speaking those words to a woman she would have gladly punched minutes earlier.

  “Not at all,” Sofia pronounced. She pulled Roxanne’s hand off her shoulder and squeezed it, looking into her eyes. “And please don’t tell my brother about this. It happened so long ago, before I started college. He doesn’t know...and doesn’t need to!”

  Roxanne squeezed her hand back. “Okay, I won’t.” She hesitated. And then realized, again like a lightning bolt, that she would have a connection, even if tenuous, to this woman for the rest of her life. “But I’m here if you need to talk. I’m your sister-in-law now.”

  “Dios mío. That’s right.” Sofia’s curse was softened by the fact that she hadn’t let go of Roxanne’s hand. She continued to look at Roxanne, as if the tears had cleared something from her eyes. “Maybe my brother isn’t the only one who should be looking for something more than a contract in their life?”

  Roxanne pulled back, now feeling a little trapped by Sofia’s slender hand. “Because you’ve just given ‘falling in love’ such a ringing endorsement.” She laughed hollowly.

  Sofia patted the back of her hand before letting it go, before crossing her arms again and studying Roxanne like she was a glass of wine whose varietal she couldn’t figure out.

  “Sí, love sucked for me,” she said finally. “But nobody’s better suited for a por siempre amor than my brother.”

  Sofia stepped back into her sky-high shoes and turned on her heel, leaving the room and abandoning Roxanne with half-done makeup and unwanted thoughts about Mateo’s “forever love.”

  * * *

  A half hour later, Roxanne walked on the arm of her princely hus
band into a room designed à la Versailles. The room was ridiculous, with its weighty crystal chandeliers and gold-leafed Rococo side tables and red-velvet-lined walls and golden lions snarling at her from each side of a raised platform.

  Mateo had explained, when he’d taken her on a brief tour of the castle that evening, that two wings had been closed to save on costs. But what she’d seen of the Castillo del Monte had been updated, the Moorish influences of arched doorways, ornate black iron light fixtures, and mosaic tiles blended effectively with warm rugs and modern furniture. She imagined that they had the welcoming staff they had met earlier to thank.

  Because the two people on the raised platform, sitting on red-velvet and gold-leafed thrones, were definitely responsible for the monstrosity of this room. Roxanne had once bumped into Britain’s prince and his wife at a hors d’oeuvres table during a Wimbledon match. They’d chatted about sailing as they’d escorted her to their box, where his mother had quizzed Roxanne about female entrepreneurship in London. They’d all been lovely.

  King Felipe and Queen Valentina, minor royalty from a tiny principality, were the worst.

  Standing in front of them, Roxanne curtsied low as Mateo bowed next to her. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, wanting to send a lifeline out to him, a wink and a nudge that said, “Are they kidding with this?”

  But as they straightened and Mateo introduced his parents using the long formality of their names, Roxanne saw that he found nothing about this situation humorous. He was angry and humiliated; he’d been stiff-jawed when he’d picked her up outside the door of the bedroom and warned her what to expect. Roxanne had tried to tell him then, was trying to tell him now with her small smile and relaxed body posture that she didn’t mind. She’d spent her life having people look down at her, since kindergarten when Becky Turner had warned all of the kids not to play with her because her mommy was an H-O-R. She was years past caring about their ostentatious display; knew the curtsy they forced on her spoke volumes more about the insecure king and queen than Roxanne. If only she could find a way to communicate her ease to Mateo.