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    Anthony did not encourage her to make friends, although he certainly entertained an adoring entourage when he deigned to spend time at home. There were several couples he invited over when he was there. One of the women was American, but Anthony had warned Irma not to have any contact with the woman when he wasn’t around.
    â€œWhy not?” she’d wanted to know.
    â€œâ€™Cause I don’t want nobody findin’ out nothin’ ’bout my business,” he’d said. “You’d better keep to yourself, Irma. That’s an order.”
    When the children were old enough, Anthony had decided that they should continue their education in America. This delighted Irma, because she was desperate to move back to the States.
    â€œ You’re not comin’,” Anthony had said, brooking no argument. “You’ll stay in Mexico—it’s our main home, it’s where you should be.”
    â€œNo,” Irma had protested. “Where I should be is with our children. They’re still young, they need me.”
    â€œForget it,” Anthony had answered harshly. “The kids are growin’ up. I’m hirin’ a housekeeper to take care of ’em, make sure they do their homework an’ eat properly. Oh yeah, an’ Francesca will be around. They’ll come to you for vacations.”
    Irma was livid. Anthony’s witch of a grandma got to live in America while she had to stay in Mexico. It wasn’t fair. But she knew better than to argue. Anthony had a fierce temper, and early on she’d learned that the wise way was to shy away from his uncontrollable wrath.
    Anthony Bonar was not only difficult and controlling, he was a screamer of mammoth proportions. Loud, frequent outbursts were not unusual; he even screamed at his grandmother when the mood took him. The old woman screamed back, giving as good as she got. In a twisted way they both seemed to enjoy their verbal battles.
    Irma didn’t. She had never gotten used to their upsetting dance over the years.
    Once the screaming stopped there were profuse apologies and overly affectionate I love you s from both of them.
    Irma thought the interaction between the two of them was sick, but she never interfered for fear of repercussions. Irma had learned over the years that it was best to keep quiet.
    *   *   *
    Sometimes Anthony Bonar thought that if it wasn’t for his children he would divorce Irma and marry his outstandingly sexy mistress, Emmanuelle. She was so hot that sometimes he couldn’t believe she was his. Twenty years old with a body any red-blooded male would kill for, she was one of the most sought-after models in Miami. Not one of those snooty bitches who strutted the runways, no, Emmanuelle was featured on the covers of Stuff and Maxim —a popular cover girl with her sexy blond curls and the best fake tits this side of Rio, the city where she was born.
    Anthony had met her in a club six months earlier. She’d been snorting coke with a hard-living male movie star who swung both ways. Anthony had taken one look at her and proceeded to move in big-time. Within weeks he’d set her up in an apartment, bought her a new Mercedes, showered her with jewelry and designer clothes.
    Anthony got off on collecting beautiful, sexy women, and Emmanuelle was a prize. But as much as he reveled in his power over females, business always came first. Business, followed by his two children, then his grandmother, and trailing way behind was Irma. Truth was he didn’t really like his wife; she was boring and a nag—always on his case about moving back to America. Most women would be thrilled to live in a twenty-five-thousand-square-foot home with servants and bodyguards. But not Irma, oh no, not his wife. Irma wanted to be near him so she could bug the shit out of him with her constant demands for sex.
    Why did she still expect him to fuck her? He’d given her two