‘Anyway, salud por que la belleza sobra,’ César said, making the usual Cuban toast. Lowering his glass, he pushed it across the table. ‘Here, try it.’
He was lounging in his seat, his arm resting against the armrest, but despite his languid manner she sensed that he was watching her, waiting for her response.
Picking up his glass, Kitty took a sip. Her tastebuds exploded. It was divine.
I could get used to this, she thought, her distiller’s brain sifting through the classic flavours of lime juice, sugar syrup, and of course rum. And she wasn’t just talking about the alcohol, she realised a little guiltily after the first sip.
Heart pounding, she gazed slowly round the room. Both the atmosphere and the decor were completely different from the shoulder-bumping, sweaty tangle at Bar Mango.
Here, everything seemed to gleam and glitter—particularly the men and woman entwined on the velvet banquettes. The women were uniformly gorgeous and sleek. Bare-shouldered and long-limbed, their glossy lips and gleaming white teeth were almost brighter than their jewels. Sitting beside them, beneath a haze of blue-grey cigar smoke, the men looked darkly handsome in their flawless suits.
She glanced over to the dance floor. It was already crowded, and she wondered if and when he was going to respond to her challenge. Thanks to some classes at her local village hall she knew how to salsa, but somehow she didn’t think that dancing with Lizzie was going to be much preparation for partnering César.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and with an effort she diverted her thoughts back to the drink she was holding. ‘It’s delicious.’
‘It should be. They make it to their own unique recipe.’
She read the challenge in his eyes and tasted it again, trying to pin down the flavour. ‘There’s grapefruit...’
He nodded, and she felt her stomach grow warm at the approval in his green gaze. Feeling self-conscious, she took another sip, using the glass as a shield against her face.
‘It tweaks it, but it’s the rum that’s making the magic. As it should do, Señor Zayas, given it’s one of yours. The four-year-old, I believe?’
He smiled then—a smile that made a pulse beat fast in her throat.
‘Bravo, Ms Quested.’ Lifting his glass, he tilted it in her direction. ‘For someone so young and untrained you have an impressive focus.’
He was only admiring her palate, that mystical ability to detect balance, length and complexity, but, looking up into his eyes, she felt her heart jab against her ribs like a boat bumping its moorings.
It was stupid to let herself be so affected. If she’d been his accountant, and he’d complimented her for reducing his tax bill, would she be feeling like this? Only here, in this beautiful room, with his dark eyes resting on her face, it was hard not to respond, not to bask just for a moment in the spotlight of male attention.
It had been so long. Five years, in fact. And she missed it—missed him: Jimmy.
He had always made her feel so special, and now she was alone. Not completely—obviously she had Lizzie and Bill and her parents. But it was a long time since she’d spent any time on her own with a man, and this man made her feel as though she was riding a rollercoaster.
But compliments couldn’t change the facts, and he was still her boss. And even if he wasn’t she didn’t need, or want, a repeat performance.
Her cheeks felt hot.
Okay, that was a lie. She did want him. But a lone sexual encounter with a stranger to remind herself that she was still a woman was one thing... Acting on that desire again would be reckless and complicated and stupid.
His position as CEO of Dos Rios wasn’t even the main reason why what had happened between them could only ever be a one-off. That was down to her. She didn’t want intimacy or commitment, and nor did she have it in her to share such things with someone else. Not since Jimmy. And nothing was going to change that, whatever people said about time being a great healer.
So, keeping on with all these formalities was not only unnecessary but counterproductive, for surely it implied that without them she was at risk of losing control, when in reality, without the high emotion of an accident driving them together, there was no risk at all of what had happened at her villa recurring.
It had been a one-off, she knew her own mind, and she wasn’t looking to be seduced.
She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you—but, please, could you call me Kitty? Being called “Ms Quested” makes me feel like I’m in a job interview.’
Her heart skittered in her chest as his gaze locked on hers. Her skin was suddenly covered with goosebumps and she felt her nipples harden.
‘If that’s what you’d prefer.’
She nodded, and his mouth curved upwards slowly.
‘In that case, would you dance with me, Kitty?’
As they walked out onto the dance floor she felt her stomach drop as his fingers grazed against hers. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Everything about him was perfect, from the long dark lashes that grazed his cheeks to those arresting green eyes.
Of course he was a beautiful dancer. Light, fluid...he didn’t just follow the music, he was part of it. Like all great partners, he seemed instinctively aware of other dancers, finding a path seamlessly between the couples circling the floor, and yet she felt as though he was entirely focused on her.
And all she could think about was him. The way his eyes rested on her face, the light press of his hand gently curving around her waist. It was such a long time since she’d felt so free, so light, so young.
The band changed tempo, and as the music slowed the shifting crowd of dancers seemed to shrink around them. She felt his hand tighten against her back, the heat of his grip seeping through the fabric of her dress. Their bodies were closer now: too close. She was conscious of the solidity of his shoulder beneath her hand and he smelled so good—a kind of clean, masculine scent that made her long to lean into him.
Only she couldn’t let herself do that, for if she gave in to that longing she knew where it would lead. And where it would end. But for some reason, right now, that realisation didn’t seem to be carrying any weight.
Everything was snarled up inside her—desire and fear, impatience and guilt, her need to keep her distance clashing with an urge to brush her lips against his.
‘I’m losing you.’
‘What?’
She glanced up at him, her eyes widening with shock that he could read her so well. White and pink and yellow strobe lights above the dance floor were criss-crossing between them, dappling his skin in gold shadows, highlighting the curve of his jaw and cheeks. He looked like the profile on a coin and she had to hold back from reaching up and touching his face.
‘You’re tensing up. Just let it go.’
He was staring directly into her eyes, and she felt her belly clench as the rum and his nearness and her own tingling hunger began to curl around her brain. Looking at him hurt—but not so much as wanting him.
‘Let it all go,’ he said softly.
Her hand tightened against his shoulder and her hips drew closer to his, their bodies blurring into one. It was as if she was floating. Everything felt soft-edged, enchanted.
Around her the room seemed to be slowing down in time to the music, and the song’s chorus was chiming in time to a melting ache deep and low down. It was way past midnight. She’d been alone with him for hours. But if someone had asked her, she would have said it had been no more than minutes.
Her heart jumped. So why did she feel as if they had always known each other?
His head dropped. His face was so close that she could feel his breath coming fast and warm against her cheek. And then his eyes locked with hers, the green of them so deep and unending that it felt as though she were drowning in them.
She could fight it, could push to the surface—but she didn’t want to. Bli
ndly, she reached up and ran her fingers over the first rough trace of stubble, seeing, sensing, feeling a need that was as palpable as her own. And then, standing up on her toes, she closed her eyes and kissed him—not gently, but fiercely, forcefully, with a hunger she had never felt for any man but him.
As their mouths touched he pulled her towards him, parting her lips with his, splaying his warm hands across her back.
She moaned softly. Her breasts were aching and she could feel every contour of his hard, muscular body. Only she wanted more. Wanted the touch of his hands sliding over her skin and the frenzied release that she knew they would bring.
She had missed him.
Pleasure danced across her skin. The blood was racing along her limbs as though towards some imaginary finishing line.
And then suddenly something shifted inside her. This intimacy was too much. Her pulse was beating too hard and too fast.
Her heart punching against her ribs, she pulled away. Silencing the tingling heat that was creeping over her skin, she opened her eyes and the room jolted back into focus.
The lights were too bright. She wanted to close her eyes. And her body was humming, the imprints of his hands stinging fiercely on her skin.
‘Excuse me—’
She felt dazed, unsteady—and, not wanting to meet his gaze, she spun round and walked swiftly off the dance floor, her legs moving automatically like some wind-up toy.
‘Kitty—’
They had reached the table and she turned reluctantly to face him. He was standing beside her, his hand resting on the back of a chair, and she tried her best to rebuild the barriers she had so casually smashed with one careless kiss.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
He frowned. ‘“Shouldn’t” usually implies a level of duty or obligation to something. Or someone.’
His voice was quiet, but there was a tension there that hadn’t been there before—one that matched the set of his jaw.
‘I thought you were a free agent.’
He let the words hang in the air between them.
Her throat tightened. ‘I am. That wasn’t what I meant.’
She clenched her hands. She was making a total mess of what she was trying to say, but she had so little experience of this kind of conversation.
He took a step forward, his green eyes searching her face. ‘You look pale. Here, sit down.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s so hot in here. I think I need some fresh air.’
But it was more than that. She could sense it...just out of reach, in the corner of her mind...like the answer to a crossword clue or a forgotten name that went with a face.
He led her out of the nightclub into the foyer. The cool air restored her a little, but her legs still felt as though they weren’t connected to her body.
Incredibly, the ladies’ cloakroom was empty.
On another night, perhaps if she’d still been out with Carrie and the other girls, she might have taken a photo and sent it to Lizzie, for the ladies’ room was gloriously over the top, with gilt-edged mirrors and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. But right now she felt too on edge to enjoy the flamboyant decor.
Turning on the tap, she held her wrists under the cooling water and stared at her reflection in the mirror. César was right. Her face did look pale, and her eyes were wide and feverish.
Except she didn’t feel ill. Just not herself.
You’re just tired, she told her reflection. You’ve been working too hard, and it was a shock meeting him like this tonight.
Her cheeks felt suddenly warm again. And, of course, she’d kissed him. Again.
What was happening to her?
She’d hoped that Cuba would bring a change to her life, but when she was with César she just didn’t recognise herself. Gone was the sensible, shy, small-town girl and in her place was a wild, passionate woman who acted without thinking.
But it had to stop here.
It didn’t matter that he looked like an angel, or that his touch turned her inside out with ecstasy. In fact, that was a reason not to give in to her desire. She didn’t want to want this dazzling, uncompromising man who threatened to bring passion and emotion into her world. For emotions were as dangerous and random as life itself, twisting and transforming, so that love turned to loss and passion to pain in a heartbeat.
And she was an adult. She could feel attracted to him and not act on it.
Breathing out slowly, she opened her handbag and found her compact. She tilted her face upwards and dusted some blusher across her cheeks. That was better. Now it just needed some lipstick. Where was it?
Frowning, she felt inside her bag, and then tipped the contents out onto the counter.
There it was.
Picking up the tube, she swiped it carefully across her lips, blotted them with a tissue and then swiped again. That would have to do.
She dropped the lipstick back into her bag and began to pick up the other items, and as she did so her hand froze. Gazing down at the box of tampons, she felt her stomach flip over, and then a rush of panic, cold and dark and swift-moving like floodwater, swept over her skin.
Gripping the side of the counter, she steadied her legs.
She couldn’t be.
Probably she had her dates wrong.
With an effort, she worked her way back through the calendar. But there was no doubt. She was at least five weeks late.
* * *
Tilting his wrist, César glanced down at his watch and frowned. He didn’t usually stand around waiting for women to come out of cloakrooms, and Kitty seemed to be taking an unusually long time, but he felt responsible for her.
The thought jarred. Feeling responsible, feeling anything aside from desire was not something he’d anticipated, but he knew that he had no choice. Right now she was his responsibility.
He wondered again why she was taking so long. Remembering her flushed cheeks, he grimaced. She was obviously embarrassed—or had he been too vehement when she’d pulled away? His chest tightened. Maybe...
But he was only human, and she had kissed him, leaning into his body so that he’d been able to feel her heart vibrating, her fingers caressing his face. And everything had faded. The lights, the music, the tension in his body—everything had turned to dust, spinning into the darkness. Everything except Kitty.
He thought back to how she’d melted into him, the heat and the hunger of her kiss and the softness of her mouth. His breath caught in his throat. She had made his head spin, made his body ache. And he’d wanted more. Only as suddenly as she’d started it she had pulled away. So, yes, he had been a little terse.
He gritted his teeth. He should never have asked her to dinner. In fact he should never have come back to Cuba. If he’d just kept to his schedule he would be in the Bahamas, asleep, serene and oblivious.
Instead his body felt as if it was about to fly apart.
Suddenly he saw her, and his heart started to pound. There was colour on her cheeks, still, but she didn’t look embarrassed—more stunned.
‘Is everything okay?’
She nodded stiffly. ‘Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.’ Her eyes didn’t meet his. ‘I’m a little out of practice when it comes to going out on the town.’
‘Of course.’ In other words, she wanted to go home. He felt a momentary pang of regret that the evening was ending, but then pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll call my driver.’
The drive home to the estate took less than twenty minutes. Usually he liked the clear night-time roads, but tonight he felt a little conflicted, for a part of him wanted to delay the moment when he and Kitty returned to being Señor Zayas and Ms Quested.
Glancing over to where Kitty sat beside him, her eyes fixed on the window, he felt his muscles tighten. Although perhaps that moment had already happened.
<
br /> Her villa was in sight now. Feeling the car slow, he leaned forward and tapped on the glass behind Rodolfo’s head. ‘You can drop me with Ms Quested. I need to stretch my legs,’ he said in Spanish. ‘So I’ll make my own way up to the house.’
As the car drove away Kitty gazed up at him warily.
It was not dark. A beautiful pearlescent moon spread a clear white light over the villa. But he’d been raised to walk women to their front doors.
‘I’ll walk you in.’
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
Inside, the villa was dark, but she switched on a table lamp and instantly a warm yellow glow spread across the room. He waited for her to say goodnight. Waited for her to smile politely and thank him for a wonderful evening. But she didn’t speak.
He stared at her tense, set face, trying to interpret her silence. And then he shut the door quietly. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what I said at the club.’
He stared past her across the living room and then instantly wished he hadn’t as he caught sight of the sofa. His body hardened painfully as an image of the pair of them, half-naked and panting, played inside his head.
With an effort, he forced his mind away from the memory and dragged his gaze back to her face. ‘I was out of order.’
‘Actually, I kissed you, so if anyone was out of order it was me.’
He thought back to the disturbed nights and restless days he’d endured since walking out of this villa. He might have left her in Cuba, but she had never left his thoughts, and had he not been her boss he would have kissed her first in the club.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said truthfully. ‘We crossed that line seven weeks ago. Left it for dust on that couch.’
‘That doesn’t make it right.’
Watching her face stiffen, he felt a rush of frustration. A planned life was a life free of complication, because there were rules and boundaries. This kind of twisting, awkward conversation was exactly why he didn’t leave his libido in charge of his actions.
Consequences of a Hot Havana Night Page 7