Carlos was a plain, ordinary and overlooked man who—throughout his entire life—was maltreated by others because of his thick Spanish accent and the color of his skin. He didn’t have money, power or fame. He did have one thing, and that was love. For that reason, Carlos’s memory has lasted a very long time in the hearts and minds of people who knew him, who still think of and speak of him with affection and admiration.

He was a scoundrel and a saint and a survivor. A tangled Celtic knot of thorns and roses. Ragged and sincere. It moved her deeply. Like a forgotten melody that suddenly struck a vibrant chord inside her heart. He was almost irresistible.

He didn’t wait for her to react. Their mutual desire was obvious. He started kissing her mouth first gently, then harder. He pushed her into the wall and started to slip her robe off. She was intoxicated by his touch. She reeled him in closer. They crashed into the bedroom.

Their encounter had formed a strange chemical bond. Mitch, a hardened ruffian, had opened up the prison of his soul to her. And Kika, who led a bitterly puritanical existence, had started to make love to him on her sofa.

She decided at that very moment that he had completely stolen her heart.