Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

by Louise Fuller

  He breathed out unsteadily.

  In another life, with any other woman, he might have hesitated, but watching her lean in closer to the barman, and the man’s flirtatious smile, he felt his heart throb in his throat—and then he was shouldering a path through the sweaty, shifting tangle of bodies.

  He had no idea what he was going to say, much less how she would react to seeing him there, but there was no time to worry about the unknown. For, as though sensing the gap opening up behind her, Kitty turned away from the smiling barman and glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘Señor Zayas?’

  Her grey eyes widened and he felt a swell of excitement as her gaze collided with his. He glanced at her, his spine tensing as it had on the bike just before he lost control. This time, however, it was her, and not the ground, that was causing his body to brace for impact.

  ‘Ms Quested.’

  It sounded so formal, so completely at odds with the way he’d been thinking about her just moments earlier, that suddenly he was struggling to find words. His one consolation was that she seemed more dazed and taken aback than he was.

  Cheeks flushing, she stared at him uncertainly. ‘I didn’t know you were back.’

  He found her confusion and the blush that accompanied it oddly satisfying. Back in control, he held her gaze. ‘I arrived this evening.’ Over her shoulder, he could see a trio of women glancing over at him. ‘Are you out with friends?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘Actually, I met them for the first time tonight. There’s an online group for expats. I got in touch and we arranged to get together this evening.’

  Her eyes met his and her expression was—what? Defiant? Scared? Tense? Determined?

  ‘How about you? Are you with friends?’

  For a moment he thought about telling the truth—how she had got under his skin in a way that he didn’t understand, or like, but that he couldn’t seem to resist, so that when he’d seen her on the street he’d been compelled to follow her.

  And then his brain caught up with his body, and he nodded. ‘I’ve just left them,’ he lied. ‘I noticed you come in, so I thought I’d come and...you know...say hello.’ His body twitched. ‘Introduce myself properly.’

  Beneath the throb of the music he felt something pulse between them, and he knew from the flare of response in her eyes that she had felt it too.

  ‘About what happened—’ she began.

  ‘Kitty? We’re thinking of going down the street to Candela. It’s another bar, but not so quiet, you know? Is that okay?’ Glancing up at him, the dark-haired woman feigned surprise, her mouth curving upwards. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not.’ Kitty said. ‘Carrie, this is...’ she hesitated.

  ‘César.’ He finished her sentence smoothly, keeping his voice casual.

  ‘Nice to meet you, César.’ Carrie smiled. ‘So how do you two know each other?’

  Kitty looked startled. ‘Oh, we—we’re—’

  ‘Friends. We met through work.’ He smiled at Carrie. ‘Are you from England too?’

  Carrie nodded. ‘London. Look, you’re welcome to join us—’ she flicked a glance at Kitty ‘—but I’ll leave you two to talk it over.’ She gave Kitty’s arm a quick squeeze. ‘Just let me know what you want to do, okay?’

  As Kitty nodded the crowd pushed forward and she was driven into him by the tide-swell of people, and fleetingly her soft curves were pressed against his groin. His mind blanked but he reacted instinctively, grabbing her elbow to steady her.

  Watching her pupils flare, a buzz went through his body like the trembling of an electric storm. Not wanting to reveal his instant uncensored response to her sudden proximity, he let her go and took a step backwards, using his arm to create a space.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault—it’s crazy in here.’ She glanced across the crowded room. ‘Is this really a quiet bar?’

  He laughed. They were both having to shout to be heard. ‘For Cuba, yes.’

  She smiled, and then her smile stiffened. ‘Why did you say we’re friends? We’re not friends.’

  He held her gaze. ‘We’re not exactly strangers either.’

  Her cheeks darkened. ‘About that—’ She glanced away, then back to his face. ‘It shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it? We’re both grown-ups. And single.’

  It wasn’t a question, but his stomach tensed as he watched her small upturned face brace against his words, and then she nodded and he felt his body loosen.

  ‘I know, but I work for you.’

  ‘You work for Dos Rios.’

  Recognising her own words, she gave him another small smile and then looked away. ‘I just want us to have a professional working relationship, and I know you said that wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘It’s not.’ Suddenly, fiercely, he wanted her to trust him. ‘And it won’t be.’

  He knew men in his position who would have taken advantage of Kitty and, yes, he was ruthless in business. But he would never exploit people in that way. He knew what it felt like to be subject to the whims of another, and it was a feeling he would never willingly inflict on someone else.

  He glanced past her at the mirror above the bar, his gaze focusing on their reflections, and as he watched the wariness fade from her eyes he quickly closed off his mind against the ache in his groin. It was time to change the subject.

  His eyes dropped to the glass of orange juice in her hand. ‘You know drinking that is practically a criminal offence in Cuba?’

  She smiled. ‘I wanted to end the evening with some memories, not a hangover—Sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so prim and uptight, it’s just... Well, I had this idea. I thought I might find some inspiration—you know, for the rums. But I think I’m just going to end up with a sore throat from having to shout all evening.’

  She glanced away and, following her gaze, he met her eyes in the mirror. For a moment they just stared at one another, and then she turned to face him. ‘Look, I don’t suppose you want to go somewhere a bit less rowdy...’

  He felt his heart beat expectantly in his throat. Her voice was light, her expression the question mark that she had left off the end of the sentence.

  Behind him the room felt solid against his back, but he could still feel the imprint of her hip on his skin, glowing red-gold like an ember.

  There was no reason to say yes—every reason, in fact, to refuse. But he already knew that making her off-limits would simply exacerbate his hunger. His stomach tightened and, remembering that he hadn’t actually eaten, he felt a rush of clarity. He’d make this about that kind of hunger.

  He nodded slowly. ‘Actually, I’d like that. Have you eaten?’

  Her eyes were dark, almost purple, and he knew even before she shook her head that she hadn’t. ‘Okay... Well, I haven’t either, so why don’t you join me for dinner?’

  * * *

  ‘How do you like your food?’

  Putting down her fork, Kitty smiled. ‘It’s excellent. I really love these—what are they called in Spanish again?’ She gestured towards her plate.

  ‘Boniatos,’ César said softly.

  She repeated it carefully, ignoring the leap in her stomach as his green eyes rested on her face. ‘They’re delicious. Everything is amazing.’

  ‘I hope I didn’t drag you away from your evening.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. I was beginning to worry that I might have to start complaining about the music being too loud—so thank you for saving me.’

  She pulled herself up short. That wasn’t the image she wanted to project.

  ‘Not that I needed saving,’ she added quickly. ‘I’m not some damsel in distress.’

  He stared at her impassively. ‘I should be the one thanking you
. You saved me from having to dine alone.’

  Her heart was pounding. She still couldn’t quite get her head around how the evening had unfolded. She’d met the other girls, as arranged, and walking with them through the streets she’d been struck by how different the city seemed at night. The old-school glamour was still there, but there was also something rawer—a hum of energy and excitement. Everywhere people were talking, flirting and kissing in time to the salsa spilling out of every window.

  It had all looked so natural, so easy and uncomplicated, and as they’d gone into the bar she’d wondered how it would feel if she could let her body follow its desires.

  Her mouth felt dry. Which, roughly translated, meant César Zayas.

  And then, just like that, she’d turned around and found him standing behind her, his green eyes capturing the light like polished emeralds.

  Had she imagined such a moment? Truthfully, yes. But the shock had still been electric, her response so visceral in its intensity that she’d actually forgotten to breathe.

  And that was how she’d first met this man whose warm lips and urgent hands had filled her head for weeks. Breathless, self-conscious, her eyes wide with shock.

  The way she’d behaved that evening had been so out of character, and the likelihood of seeing him again so remote, she’d convinced herself that meeting him again would be a little awkward but manageable. But the moment she’d turned around she’d realised that she was nowhere near cool or sophisticated enough simply to brush off having sex with a stranger who had then turned out to be her boss.

  It had been tempting simply to pretend to ignore what had happened, but she knew from past experience that it would be better to know the worst. Like whether César Zayas’s idea of a ‘clean slate’ meant removing all reminders of what happened that evening—including her.

  But of course he had been completely unfazed, and it had been his response that had prompted her invitation, to prove to herself as much as to him that the line they’d crossed seven weeks ago had been a one-off.

  Clandestina, the restaurant he’d chosen, was like nowhere she’d ever been. There was no sign outside, for a start, just a doorman in a dark suit who had nodded silently, stepping back to let them pass into the Art Deco apartment block. But as they’d walked out onto the rooftop terrace she’d forgotten to breathe.

  She’d been told that Cuban restaurants tended towards the rustic, but this was no homely paladar. It was wall-to-wall luxury. Only there weren’t any walls—just a polished concrete floor, hot pink velvet-covered chairs and uninterrupted views of the city and the sea beneath a black, silk-lined awning.

  She had felt almost dizzy. It was a million miles away from the shabby local pub where she and Jimmy had used to get lunch sometimes. It was pure indulgence—a sensory and sensual overload that bordered on the decadent.

  She wondered if that was why he’d chosen it, or whether it was because he was friends with the owners, two brothers called Héctor and Frank. Either way, he clearly felt at home as he was on first-name terms with most of the waiters, and ordered without so much as glancing at the handwritten menu.

  Or perhaps it was just the food, she thought, her stomach rumbling as the waiters brought out more plates of the most amazing pulled pork, roast chicken and frituras de malanga.

  ‘So where do you see yourself professionally in the next five years? Presumably there’s nothing left for you career-wise in England.’

  She blinked. She had been a little nervous about the potential for lulls in their conversation, but it had been surprisingly easy and fast-flowing. They had talked mostly about work. And she’d been happy to discuss distilling and sugar cane shortages. But this aspect, her career, was not somewhere she was prepared to go. To talk about the future would risk revealing too much about her past...about Jimmy and their life together.

  ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

  He frowned. ‘Then you should.’

  His directness knocked her off balance.

  ‘I don’t like to plan ahead.’ She swallowed. ‘Things don’t always work out—’

  He frowned, and that mask—the one without expression that he’d worn as he’d left her villa—slipped over his face.

  ‘Dos Rios is a major step up for you. You need to build on that. Your career is international now. Or is there a reason you need to go back to England?’

  After all the generic boss-new-employee questions, his sudden trespass into more personal territory rasped against her skin.

  He looked at her curiously and for one terrible moment, she thought he might press her, but after a moment, he shrugged.

  It was time to change the subject, she thought. ‘So how do you know them? Héctor and Frank, I mean?’

  He stared at her so intently in the silence that followed her remark that the greenness of his eyes almost overwhelmed her.

  ‘We used to hang out at the same beaches when we were teenagers,’ he said finally. ‘And we carried on hanging out through university, and during the holidays, until we all got jobs.’

  It was not difficult to imagine the chubby, smiling brothers lolling on wooden chairs on the honey-coloured sand of some palm-strewn beach. César, on the other hand... She stared at him speculatively. He looked poised, unruffled, immaculate. He was dressed in his customary uniform of black suit and tie, although on him it seemed more like armour than clothes.

  ‘You don’t seem convinced.’

  His eyes met hers and she made a face. ‘Well, I can’t really imagine you on a beach. Do you tuck your tie into your swim shorts?’

  He smiled, and her heart skipped a beat. The table suddenly seemed to small.

  ‘I haven’t always worn a shirt and tie,’ he said softly. ‘I still don’t when the occasion requires it.’

  The memory of his naked body pressed against hers collided with a 3D image of him rising out of the sea, water trickling down his smooth golden skin. Inhaling sharply, she bit her lip—and then instantly wished she hadn’t as his gaze dropped to her mouth.

  ‘But I have to admit it was tricky getting the sand out of my laptop.’

  His green eyes glittered and she bit her lip again, but her mouth defied her and she could feel herself smiling.

  ‘Don’t you have people to do that for you? I mean, you are the boss.’

  The air around them felt hot and tight.

  ‘I’m not always the boss. Sometimes I take the day or the night off.’

  Her breathing was suddenly staccato, and she felt her calm mood of moments earlier flee, dissipating in the face of his untempered masculinity and authority like dandelion seeds in the wind. It was time to move the conversation away from the tempting, stealthy undercurrent beneath his words.

  ‘So, what did you do, then, on these beaches?’

  ‘Probably exactly what you did when you were that age.’

  Kitty blinked. At ‘that age’ she’d been trying to fit in lectures around Jimmy’s hospital appointments. There had been no time to go the beach.

  ‘Like what?’

  He shrugged. ‘A whole crowd of us would hook up. You know, have some drinks, make a barbecue, play music, dance.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He shifted forward in his seat so that his knee brushed against hers beneath the table, and she had to clench her muscles to stop herself from pressing back, from leaning in to the heat of his body.

  ‘Why are you smiling like that?’

  His mood had shifted, he seemed lighter and more relaxed. It was a glimpse of a younger, less guarded man, and she wondered what had changed him over the years.

  She shook her head. ‘You can dance?’

  ‘I’m Cuban—we practically invented dancing. So, yes, I can dance.’

  His smile beckoned to her across the table, warm, teasing, complicit. She could feel the
rise and fall of her breath, hear the sound of her heartbeat inside her head, and she had that sense of standing on the wing of a plane, of freedom and anticipation, as his eyes looked directly into hers.

  ‘Prove it,’ she said softly.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THEY REACHED THE nightclub just before one. On the tenth floor of the Hotel Bello, the members-only Club el Moré was clearly the place to go for Havana’s elite.

  ‘You won’t find any tourists here,’ César said as a waiter guided them to a table.

  She smiled. ‘Am I not a tourist?’

  He shook his head. ‘You live here. That makes you an honorary habanera.’

  A pulse sidestepped across her skin as she sat down, and she felt inexplicably happy at his choice of words. ‘So is that why you come here? No tourists?’

  His mouth turned up at the corners. ‘Yes.’

  His blunt answer made her burst out laughing. ‘Really?’

  He shook his head in time with the smile curving his mouth. ‘No, not really. I mean, it can feel a little like you’re living in a theme park—with all the cars and cigars—but really I come here because they have the best live music and cocktails in the city.’

  As though reading his lips, a waiter appeared at his elbow and expertly slid two exquisite coupe glasses decorated with silver polka dots onto the table. He tapped her glass of orange juice, and then took a sip of his daiquiri.

  ‘I don’t normally drink these—’ he said.

  ‘Too touristy?’ She finished his sentence.

  His eyes gleamed. ‘A little.’

  ‘So what do you drink?’

  ‘I prefer a highball of eight-year-old Dos Rios with a couple of drops of water to open it up and a little ice to push back the sweetness.’ Twisting his glass around, he gazed at it assessingly. ‘But tonight a daiquiri feels right—after all, one of your countrymen supposedly had a hand in its creation.’

  She shook her head. Some people claimed that in an attempt to ward off scurvy Sir Francis Drake had added limes to the crew’s ration of rum, but there were plenty of others who argued that the legendary cocktail had been named after a beach just off Santiago called Daiquiri.