Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

by Louise Fuller

She hardly ever cried. In books and films tears could cure blindness and mend wounds. In real life, though, they just gave you a headache and made your skin all blotchy.

  But for the last few weeks she’d kept feeling this sadness. Not like the grief of losing Jimmy—a grief that had made her feel as if she was at the bottom of the ocean, gazing up through black waters. This feeling was nothing like that. It was just frustration that she couldn’t seem to do her job.

  It didn’t help that at Blackstrap the creative process had felt so organic and effortless.

  Partly that had been down to the fact that the business had only just been starting up, so there had been no actual deadline and therefore no pressure. And, of course, Bill was so incredibly laid-back.

  Now, though, she was working for a global brand that had become almost a byword for rum, and time was running out.

  Thinking of Jimmy, and their short, sweet marriage, she felt a lump rise in her throat. She knew all about time running out.

  But she was not going to go there and, pushing her memories aside, she closed her laptop and slid it into her bag. She took the stairs down to the foyer and stepped out into the sunlight. After the chilled air of the labs the heat felt like an oven, and she was grateful to get into the air-conditioned cool of the car that took her to and from work.

  Leaning back, she closed her eyes. Probably part of the reason she felt so defeated was that she was tired, the kind of tired that felt like an actual weight, physically crushing her.

  She sighed. It was her own fault. She’d been sleeping badly and waking early and, although she’d grown used to her own company, the days had started to feel very long. So, without planning it, she’d fallen into a routine of going into the labs and staying late.

  Clearly she was in a rut. She needed to forget about rum, put on some sunscreen and get some exercise and fresh air. She couldn’t remember the feeling of sunshine on her face—and when had she last gone for a walk?

  Her pulse stilled. Oh, she knew exactly when she’d last gone for a walk. It was not something she was likely to forget—or rather he was someone she was not likely to forget.

  Picturing César Zayas’s green-eyed gaze and his hard, muscular body, she felt her skin tighten, and she pressed her thighs together, her muscles tensing against a sudden, dizzying flood of heat.

  She had promised herself that she wasn’t going to think about him today. It was the same promise she’d made and failed to keep every day since he’d walked out of her villa.

  Her cheeks felt hot. It had been stupid to feel that way when he’d been a complete stranger, but it was even more stupid, not to say baffling and pointless, to feel that way now she knew he was her boss.

  Only she just couldn’t stop herself thinking about his beautiful, masculine face, about his hands and his mouth, and the hard, insistent pressure of his body against hers.

  But it was going to stop.

  Not because she regretted what had happened. She didn’t. It had been amazing. But whatever her feelings had been, they had nothing to do with any kind of reality. Things had just got a little out of hand...

  Trembling, she opened her eyes and gazed out of the window at the broad fields of sugarcane.

  It was obviously not ideal, him being her boss and everything, but she knew why it had happened. After Jimmy had died she’d stopped eating. Not deliberately—she’d just seemed to forget about food. All she’d wanted to do was sleep. Eventually, over time, her appetite had come back, and even though she was still a little on the slim side her weight was perfectly normal now.

  What wasn’t normal, though—or healthy—was being celibate for so long.

  And it wasn’t just sex. Aside from sharing hugs with her family, she now lived a life bereft of physical contact. She didn’t even have a pet—a cat or a dog she could cuddle.

  She was twenty-seven years old and it had been five years since she’d kissed or been kissed. So she’d wanted to remember what it felt like to have a man pull her close, to feel his warm hands and lips on her skin. Maybe if she’d given in to that need earlier then she wouldn’t be feeling like this now, but after years of virtually ignoring an entire gender, was it any surprise that she’d been knocked sideways by that moment of wild, feverish passion that had flared between the two of them?

  Back at the villa, she had a long, cool shower, using her favourite body wash, and then sat down on her bed with a book and a glass of mango juice. Normally she hated fruit juice, but for some reason she’d suddenly started craving it.

  Twenty minutes later, she hadn’t read a word, and she still hadn’t shifted the heaviness in her limbs.

  She knew it was psychosomatic...that if she managed to find that elusive inspiration everything would change in a heartbeat. Her mood would lighten and she would finally be able to blank her mind to the memory of her mysterious too-attractive boss, and that fierce, involuntary pull of attraction she had felt for him.

  If only she could find those elusive notes that would make the rum sing. But nothing she’d tried was working.

  She felt another prickle of panic and then, as she glanced across the room, she noticed the dress hanging from the handle of her wardrobe.

  It had been an impulse buy.

  In the weeks leading up to her flight to Cuba she’d gone on a shopping trip to London, mainly to shut Lizzie up. Knowing that her sister would be appalled if she came home with nothing but insect repellent and a hat, she’d gone into one of those boutiques where even a basic T-shirt cost as much as her train fare home. Feeling horribly provincial and out of place, she been rummaging through a rail of linen cardigans, trying to look as though she was a regular customer, and there it had been.

  Shocking pink, with a riotous pattern of exotic-looking flowers, it had tiny cap sleeves and a flippy little skirt that showed off her legs. It was bright, sexy and eye-wateringly expensive—in short, absolutely not the kind of dress she would ever normally buy. But in her head it had seemed to fit perfectly with her fantasy of a crowded Havana nightclub filled with beautiful dancing couples.

  And suddenly, with a dawn-breaking kind of clarity, she knew what she was going to do.

  She was going to go out in Havana. She was going to drink mojitos and dance and follow the pulsing salsa rhythm right to the heart of Cuba.

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry, Señor Zayas, but the road ahead is closed so I’m going to have to go through the centre.’

  Looking up from his laptop, César gazed out of the window of his SUV to where a queue of cars were jostling for position, accompanied by an escalating cacophony of horns and shouts.

  He frowned at his driver. ‘Is it an accident?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. It looks like roadworks.’

  ‘It’s fine, Rodolfo,’ he said. ‘I can wait.’

  His shoulders stiffened. If that was true, then why had he turned his entire schedule on its head and ordered Miguel, his pilot, to divert mid-flight to Havana instead of going to the Bahamas as planned?

  He was in the process of buying a new catamaran, and had been on his way to Freeport to meet with the architects and the marine engineers when he’d changed his mind. Or that was what he’d told himself and his bemused air crew. The truth was that he’d pretty much been returning to Havana ever since he’d walked out of that villa on his estate seven weeks ago, his blood humming in his veins, his body reeling.

  He felt his gut tighten.

  Kitty Quested.

  For the first few days after leaving Havana he’d resisted pulling her file, but finally he’d relented, assuming that if he answered the questions buzzing round his head the mystery would be solved. Instead, though, his questions had multiplied.

  She was younger than he’d realised, and professionally inexperienced. How, then, had she created such an outstanding rum?

  Creating such nuanced, complex fl
avours would have taken patience and persistence—qualities that were rare at that age. He certainly hadn’t had them when his father had sat him down and told him that it was time to step up and take over the running of Dos Rios.

  He felt his chest tighten, remembering his reaction at the time. Shock and disbelief—and then panic. He hadn’t been ready, not nearly ready, to do what his father had asked of him. An indulged childhood had been no preparation for the responsibilities involved in running the family business. And after finishing his degree he’d wanted to travel, not work. To have fun, and to be free of his parents’ unconditional and sometimes stifling love.

  He couldn’t blame them for wanting to be so involved in his life. They’d wished and waited for a baby so long, suffered so many disappointments. By the time he was born it had been too late for there to be any brother or sister and his fate had been sealed. He would always be unique, cherished and beloved.

  He knew he was incredibly lucky to be so wanted, but his position as their only son and heir was complicated. For years he had prayed for a sibling. Not because he’d been lonely, nor even because he had known it would make his parents happy, but just so he wouldn’t have to be so exceptional.

  His prayers had gone unanswered, but—incredibly—his parents had agreed to give him a year after graduating from his MBA. A year to make his way alone in the world and make his own mistakes. And that was exactly what he’d done.

  And look how that turned out.

  He had ended up hurting the ones who loved him the most. The only consolation in the whole sorry mess was that it had taught him a valuable life lesson: that trust was something to be earned, not given.

  And yet, incomprehensibly, he had felt as though he could trust Kitty.

  But then nothing made sense about that woman. From her sudden appearance on the deserted road to that tantalising passion she’d revealed in that darkening villa.

  She was a mystery, an enigma, with a glorious riot of red hair, a pale, serious face and mesmerisingly expressive grey eyes that switched in a flash from concern to fury.

  Was it any wonder that for weeks now she had been popping into his head without invitation but with maddening regularity?

  Images of her beautiful naked body undulating against his, the last shreds of sunlight spilling across their damp, feverish skin, had hounded his days and haunted his dreams, so that for the first time since adolescence his body had been at the mercy of his hormones.

  And so he’d come back to Havana.

  For years now he’d rationed his visits—more so since he’d moved his parents to live in Palm Beach—and on arrival he instantly felt that familiar sense of conflict. Relief at being home fighting with regret that he could never truly be himself here. But that was the way it had to be. The open, easy-going young man who had left Cuba to go to college in the States had never returned. Instead, in his place was a man who lived a life of order and restraint.

  He gritted his teeth. Most of the time anyway.

  That rollo with Kitty Quested shouldn’t have happened. Normally he was so careful, so considered, plus she was an employee. But something had started out on that road...a spark had been struck.

  His muscles tensed as he remembered. Not the impact of metal hitting gravel, but the moment when he’d looked up and she had been running towards him, that incredible red hair flying behind her like a comet’s tail. She’d looked so small and fragile, but she had been moving with the same fierce determination as the waves that rode in to La Setenta beach.

  He’d felt her panicky fear, had seen it too, for she’d been shaking. Only then she’d started scolding him, and he’d realised that it wasn’t fear but anger, and all at once he’d been angry with her for lecturing him and being so impossibly, maddeningly righteous.

  But mainly for having that incredible enticingly pink mouth.

  And suddenly they had both been shaking. Only not with anger.

  Replaying the moment again inside his head, he frowned. At the time there had been so much going on, but of course there was a perfectly logical explanation for that strange weave of tension.

  Feelings had been running high.

  An accident, anger, and confusion over their respective identities had obviously acted like emotional gunpowder, and his own spiking adrenaline was the spark which had ignited that intense, reluctant attraction he’d felt.

  An attraction that he’d confidently expected to fade by the time he walked out of her villa.

  Only he’d been wrong.

  And that was why he needed to see her again.

  His fingers twitched against the keyboard.

  Last time he’d had no choice but to leave—to flee, really. Not just from Kitty, but from the past that haunted him, from a weakness he had thought he could only escape by keeping himself away from temptation.

  And she had been a temptation. More than that, she had been a compulsion, and he’d been shocked and scared to discover that he still had that same weakness inside him—the weakness that had caused him and his family so much pain.

  He’d had no choice. In Cuba, with her so tantalisingly close, there would have been a chance that he might give in to temptation. Clearly he’d needed to put some distance between the two of them—not just to remove the risk of that happening but to get his head in order.

  Only that hadn’t happened. He’d flown to Florida, then to New York and across to San Francisco. But all those thousands of miles had made no difference. She had got inside his head so that he couldn’t think about anything other than her, and it was then that he’d realised that he’d made a mistake.

  By leaving so swiftly he’d basically gone ‘cold turkey’. His body was suffering withdrawal symptoms. He wanted more, and he was denying himself. Worse, he’d turned her into some kind of forbidden fruit—an illicit, off-limits pleasure—so of course he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.

  Seeing her again would make her real and attainable, and her power over him would simply disappear. Then he would take a new lover, someone who neither worked for him nor lived on his doorstep, and his hunger for this red-haired Englishwoman would be forgotten. Kitty Quested would be just a name on a payslip.

  Feeling calmer, he settled back against his seat. The sky was beginning to turn pink and the brash, modern hotels were giving way to grand palm-filled squares and roads crammed with almendróns—iconic vintage American cars in a mouthwatering array of pick-‘n’-mix colours. The SUV slowed, bumping over the cobbled streets of the Habana Vieja, and he leaned forward, his gaze drawn to the view outside the window.

  It was a typical Friday night in his hometown. The streets seemed to swell with noise and laughter, and everywhere there were people. Beautiful, smiling people, chatting, dancing, holding up their phones to take photos. He scanned their faces, remembering how it had felt to be that carefree, so unquestioning of his right to happiness.

  And then his gaze snagged on something teasingly familiar.

  Hair the colour of damp beech leaves and the curve of a cheekbone, pale and luminous in the fading light.

  He frowned. It couldn’t be. Not in that dress. Or those heels.

  But then she turned and he felt shock break over him like a wave. It was her. He watched as Kitty nodded to the dark-haired woman following her, her lips parting in a smile that made his vision go watery at the edges, and then, turning, she ran as lightly as a dancer up the steps into a bar.

  It took his brain approximately ten seconds to go from mute disbelief to a memory of her as she had been that evening, arching against him, the curve of her back beneath his hand—

  His shock was forgotten and instead he was tensing, his body reduced to nothing more than a swirling mass of instincts and hormones.

  ‘Stop the car.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  He heard the surprise in Rodolfo’s voice but igno
red it. ‘Just pull over.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Feeling the car slow, his heartbeat accelerated.

  ‘I just need to speak to someone,’ he said. ‘Take the car round the block and I’ll call you when I need to be picked up.’

  Without waiting to hear his driver’s reply he opened the car door and stepped out onto the pavement. The air was sweet and humid, tinged with cigarette smoke, and behind the buzz of chatter and laughter he could hear bursts of reggaeton and salsa from the nearby bars. But he barely registered anything other than the bright yellow door through which Kitty had just disappeared.

  He glanced at the sign. Bar Mango. He didn’t know it, but he didn’t need to. He could picture exactly what it would be like: the heat, the hormones pulsing in time to the sound system...the heaving crush of strangers acting like lovers.

  Moving quickly through the crowds, he took the steps two at a time, sidestepping a group of American tourists and pushing open the door. Inside the bar the music was deafening and the temperature was several degrees higher than on the street. The room was jammed with people shouting to one another.

  ‘Oye, asere, qué hacemos hoy?’

  ‘Qué vola, hermano?’

  He surveyed the crowd, feeling his heart beating exponentially faster as each dimly lit corner failed to reveal her. Surely she couldn’t have left already?

  His shoulders tensed against an unreasonable rush of disappointment—and then tensed again as suddenly he saw her.

  A pinwheel of relief spun inside his chest as he wondered how he had missed her. She was standing next to the bar, talking to the same dark-haired woman he’d seen before, and clearly they were part of a larger group of girls, all about the same age as Kitty—chicas, his mother would have called them.

  They were all young, beautiful, and confident in their vivid, lustrous beauty, but he could feel them fading away as he continued to stare at Kitty. She seemed to glow in the darkness, her glossy hair and mouth, the contours of her cheekbones a masterclass in chiaroscuro.

  The word whispered against his skin, and he felt his body reacting both to the seductive lure of the syllables and the association in his mind between shadows and silence—and sex.