Worse, in this room, with the ghost of their passionate encounter still tangible, her remoteness was setting his teeth on edge. Between leaving the dance floor and coming out of the cloakroom something had changed. But what?
He stared down at her uncertainly, reluctant to know more but even more reluctant to turn away. ‘Has something happened?’
A quick breath lifted her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. It might have. Or it might not. I’m not sure—’ She broke off mid-sentence.
Beneath his shirt, his heart started to pound. Her words made no sense, but it was her sudden retreat into silence that made the tension in his chest suddenly unbearable. For he had learned from Celia that the unsayable was always worse than anything that could be spoken out loud, no matter how inarticulately expressed.
Gazing down at her pale, set face, he felt his muscles tighten, and suddenly he knew why she couldn’t speak. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ he said coolly. ‘But if you’re that worried why don’t you call your boyfriend?’
He felt a sharp sting of anger just saying the word, but he was grateful to have found out the truth now rather than later.
She was shaking her head. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend. I told you that—’
‘I know what you told me, but that doesn’t make it true.’
‘I’m not lying to you.’ Her eyes were narrowing and a flush of colour was slipping slowly over the contours of her face. ‘I’m trying to tell you the truth.’
‘It’s a little too late for that.’
He knew his anger was disproportionate. They’d had sex only once, but it was disconcerting to discover that he still had this weakness inside, this impaired judgement.
Her mouth twisted. ‘Not really. I only realised tonight.’
‘Realised what?’
She hesitated, and his anger flared hotter.
‘I’m not about to start playing guessing games, Kitty.’
‘I didn’t—’ She licked her lips. ‘I think I might be pregnant.’
Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, it hadn’t been that. He stared at her in silence, brain reeling, body rigid with shock. ‘How do you—?’
‘How do I know?’ She bit her lip. ‘I don’t—for sure. But I’m five weeks late.’
He did the maths inside his head. It worked. Only...
‘I thought you said you couldn’t have children?’
The accusatory tone and the implied doubt in his words seemed magnified in the small room. He watched her face close over.
‘I didn’t think I could.’ She looked up at him, her eyes too bright, and he could almost see her retreating. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you.’
His stomach twisted. She looked drained, and young, too young to be dealing with this alone in a foreign country, away from her family. Having wrongly accused her of lying, he could hardly condemn her for honesty.
‘No, I’m glad you told me.’
And, despite his shock, he was surprised to find that he actually was. The truth was always preferable to being fed lies. But this was too big a truth to tackle now. Out of habit, he schooled his features into a mask of calm, the CEO in him taking charge.
‘Look, it’s late. We can’t do anything more tonight and you look exhausted.’ He glanced across the room. ‘You need to go to bed.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I can sleep.’
‘Then just lie down for a minute.’
Gently, he guided her towards the sofa. He watched her sit down. She seemed hardly aware of him, and he realised that she was as exhausted as she looked.
‘Come on.’ He grabbed a cushion. ‘Put your head on this and just close your eyes.’
She slid off her shoes and lay down, curling onto her side, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes.
‘We’ll talk about this in the—’ he began, but she was already asleep, her hair spreading out like a fan of flames over her shoulders. Shrugging his jacket from his shoulders, he draped it carefully over her body.
Dropping down onto one of the chairs, he shifted against the cushions, trying to get comfortable. He thought back to how this evening had started. Seeing Kitty through the car window, following her into the bar, dancing with her...and then that kiss.
It had been the most tantalising foreplay in what he’d hoped would be a night as passionate as that first time. What he hadn’t expected was to find out that he might be a father.
His chest tightened. Mixing a night of incredible sex with a complete loss of control had been a cocktail to rival any daiquiri, only now it appeared that there might be life-changing consequences to that explosive encounter on her sofa.
He felt shattered, his head spinning with a dizzying rush of unanswered questions, but the answers would have to wait until morning.
Tilting his head back, he took one last look at the woman who was going to give him those answers and then closed his eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
SOMEWHERE, SOMEONE WAS singing about her heart being broken.
Shifting onto her side, Kitty lay with her eyes closed, still half asleep, but following the words. It was a song that was playing everywhere in Havana—only why was it playing inside her villa?
Slowly she opened her eyes and sat up.
There was no sign of César but, glancing down, she realised she hadn’t been sleeping under a blanket but his jacket, and the chair opposite the sofa had been moved. Her heart gave a leap as she noticed the indentation in the cushion.
He must have stayed the night—only surely men like César Zayas didn’t kip on chairs in people’s living rooms.
And then she smelled the coffee.
Standing up, she walked into the kitchen. Her coffee pot sat on the counter. She didn’t need to touch it to know it was hot. Steam was still drifting out of the spout.
And there on the back doorstep, a cup in his hand, was César.
She almost turned and ran. Last night she might have been brave or stupid enough to share her fears, but this morning she simply wasn’t up to facing him. Particularly as she had turned his world upside down over what must surely be a mistake.
She couldn’t be pregnant.
Last night had been the emotional equivalent of a ride at the funfair. Bumping into him like that, that kiss on the dance floor... She hadn’t been thinking straight, and in the cloakroom she’d panicked and put two and two together and come up with a pregnancy. Surely though, there was some other, less dramatic reason for her symptoms. One that she could best identify on her own, in private.
But before she had a chance to move he turned, and her legs unhelpfully stopped working. For a moment he stared at her in silence, and then he straightened up. He was standing on the bottom step, so that his brilliant green eyes were level with hers, and it took every shred of willpower not to look away.
Even though the clean lines of his face were slightly smudged by sleep, the shock of his beauty made her head spin. Her heart was beating so hard that she could feel her ribs vibrating. She knew she had to say something, but her brain seemed to have shut down in sympathy with her legs.
‘How do you feel?’ he said quietly.
His gaze drifted down over her body and then slowly back up to her face, and she remembered that she was still wearing her clothes from the night before.
But then so was he.
He’d lost the tie, but he was still wearing his shirt and suit trousers, and the crumpled state of the shirt together with the stubble darkening his jawline was the final piece of evidence confirming what she already knew.
‘I’m okay. So, you stayed the night?’ She paused. ‘Did you sleep in the chair?’
He nodded. ‘It was fine.’ He held up his cup. ‘I hope you don’t mind—I made myself a coffee.’
She shook her head. ‘No, of course not.’
It felt strange. Not awkward, just astonishing that this man might be connected to her by more than that brief but blinding solar flare of passion.
‘Would you like a cup?’
She shook her head again. ‘No, thank you. I don’t really like the taste at the moment.’
A breeze stirred the air between them, loosening her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear, grateful for something to do as his eyes rested on her face.
‘We need to talk,’ he said finally. ‘Shall we go inside?’
She nodded.
He followed her into the kitchen. ‘First things first, you need to take a test.’ He met her eyes, blank-faced.
She stared at him dazedly. Everything was moving so fast. Her brain kept jumping back and forth—to the past, to England and Jimmy, then back to the present. Too fast.
In all honesty, she wasn’t absolutely ready to know the truth yet—but then she could hardly drop a grenade in his lap, as she had last night, and expect him to sit there and hold the pin indefinitely.
‘Yes, I do.’ She frowned. ‘Do I need to go to a doctor? Or can I get one at a pharmacy?’
‘You don’t have to worry about that. Here.’ He reached past her and picked up a nondescript brown envelope from the counter.
‘I had one of my people get a test for you. Don’t worry, he’s very discreet. He understands this is a personal matter.’
She nodded mutely, unsure whether she was more shocked by the cool-headed speed and efficiency of his behaviour or the fact that this man might be the father of her unborn child.
Her hand trembled slightly as she took the envelope. Despite his dishevelled appearance—or probably because of it—he looked incredibly sexy. Even rumpled, the formality of his clothes seemed to accentuate the raw masculinity of the body beneath, and his hair looked as it had after they’d made love. Although it was obviously him and not her who had run hands through it one too many times on this occasion—and not in passion but through worry.
For a moment she thought he was going to say something, or that she should. It seemed as if something should be said, but what was the correct choice of words for this situation?
‘I’ll use the bathroom,’ she said unnecessarily.
Closing the bathroom door, she breathed out raggedly. Her hands were shaking a lot now, and she tore at the box clumsily. The instructions were written in English—not that she needed them. She’d taken dozens of tests when she’d tried to get pregnant before, but she still read them through carefully, just to make sure. She’d been careless enough already.
There—it was done.
She gazed down at the stick. It seemed unreasonable that such a small disposable object should carry such heavy expectations: hope and despair, excitement and disappointment, all wrapped up in a tiny piece of plastic.
Her heart was beating erratically, and suddenly she badly wanted to ring Lizzie—only her phone was in her bag, and her bag was wherever she’d left it last night.
But even as she reached for the door handle she knew this wasn’t something she could share with anyone but the man who was waiting patiently in her kitchen...
He was standing where she’d left him.
‘We have to wait now,’ she said quickly, putting the stick down on the counter. ‘For three minutes.’
His face was impassive. But then he didn’t love her, and this hypothetical baby wasn’t planned. It didn’t stop her wondering, though, how he would have looked if the situation was different? Would he have held her hand as they waited? Or discreetly checked his watch to check the time.
Her throat tightened. And when it was negative would he have pulled her into his arms and told her that it didn’t matter? That next time would be different.
‘Why did you become a distiller?’
She glanced up at him, startled. Why was he asking her that now?
‘I have a chemistry degree.’
‘The two aren’t necessarily connected,’ he said gently.
She stared at him in silence. She’d been planning to do a Masters in polymers after graduating, but then Jimmy had been diagnosed with cancer and it had been a struggle even to finish her degree.
Naturally everyone had wanted to help, and she had been happy...no, grateful...to take a step back, to let other people—doctors and nurses, her friends and of course her family—make the decisions and take charge of the situation. They had helped her care for Jimmy, and then to grieve for him.
But after time she’d realised that somewhere along the line she had taken one step back too many. She had never been an extrovert like Lizzie—never been bold or loud. But after Jimmy’s death she’d felt diminished, defeated, and so very tired of life. No amount of coaxing and cajoling could persuade her to leave the house.
And then Bill had asked her to help him at the distillery. Lizzie had set it up, of course, guessing correctly that she would always put other people’s needs above her own.
Remembering that first winter when she’d started working for Blackstrap, she almost smiled. The former salt shed was made of stone, and the distillery had been freezing. But she hadn’t cared. She had been too busy playing with spices, pulling on the knowledge acquired from her degree, blending and tweaking and chasing that elusive perfect flavour.
And working on the rum hadn’t just woken her taste buds, it had woken her from a kind of self-imposed hibernation. It had reminded her that she was still alive, and that even if she was alone she needed to live that life. Only now there might be a new life growing inside of her.
‘My brother-in-law asked me to help him. It was Bill’s idea to set up Blackstrap, but he was having a few problems with the flavour profile. He’s got the technical know-how, but he’s not very good at focusing.’
‘Luckily for him, you are.’
She stared at him in confusion. Why were they talking about her sister’s boyfriend? Surely he wasn’t interested in Bill and his lack of focus.
And then, as he glanced casually at his watch, she knew why. He had been trying to distract her.
‘I think it’s probably been three minutes,’ he said quietly.
Her heart contracted. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.
‘It’s okay.’ Reaching out, he took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Do you want me to look first?’
‘No.’ She shook her head and picked up the stick.
Her throat tightened and suddenly it was hard to balance on her feet without gripping the counter. For a dizzying second she pictured Jimmy’s face, his smile, his tears.
Pregnant 3+
She looked up at César. ‘It’s positive.’
His expression didn’t change by so much as a tremor.
‘I’m pregnant.’
She knew that these tests were ninety-nine per cent accurate, but somehow saying the words out loud made it feel more real. It was there—in her hand. She was going to have a baby.
Only the person who was supposed to be the father, supposed to be there with her, was no longer around.
Her heartbeat had slowed; she felt as if she was in a dream. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said again.
César’s grip tightened around her hand, and as she met his gaze she felt her legs wilt. His eyes were so very green, and for a moment all she could think was that they should be brown.
Her head was swimming. It had taken five years, but most days she was content with her life. She still regretted Jimmy’s death, but the acute pain, that hollowed-out ache of despair, had faded a few years ago. Only now this news had reawakened old emotions.
He caught her arm. ‘You need to sit down.’
Still holding her hand, he led her into the living room. She sat down on the sofa. The first shock was starting to wear off and panic was starting to ripple over her skin.
‘I don’t understand how this could happen.’
When she and Jimmy had started trying for a baby he had been so keen he’d taken a fertility test and everything had been normal. She’d been about to get herself checked out when he fell ill, and then there had been too much going on, other more urgent tests to take and so each time she wasn’t pregnant she had blamed herself—her periods had always been irregular. Only now it seemed as though it hadn’t been her.
César sat down beside her. ‘I’m pretty sure it happened the usual way.’
She stared at him dazedly. Her head was a muddle of emotions, but he was so calm. So reasonable.
‘You haven’t asked me,’ she said slowly, ‘if the baby could be someone else’s.’
In a way, that was more of a shock than her pregnancy. With hindsight—her late period, her sudden craving for fruit juice, her heightened relentless fatigue—all pointed to one obvious explanation, but she knew it was a question most men in his situation would have asked.
He leaned back a little, studying her face. There was an expression in his eyes that she couldn’t fathom.
For a moment he didn’t reply, and then he shrugged. ‘What happened between us isn’t something I’ve found easy to forget. I’d like to believe that you feel the same way. But if you think there’s any question over my paternity now would be a good time to say so.’
She shook her head. ‘There hasn’t been anyone but you.’ Her eyes flicked to his face. ‘And, yes, I feel the same way.’
As she spoke some of the tension in her shoulders lifted. They hadn’t planned for this to happen, to bring new life into the world, and they might not love one another, but those few heated moments had been fierce and important for both of them, and she was glad that this child had been conceived out of such extraordinary mutual passion.
‘I don’t regret it,’ she said abruptly. ‘What we did or what’s happened.’
Her heart swelled. She had wanted and waited for this baby for so long, and suddenly all those other tests, with their accusatory ghostly white rectangles, seemed to grow vague and unsubstantial.
‘Well, it’s a little late for regrets.’ He paused. ‘This baby isn’t going anywhere. What matters now is what happens next.’
Consequences of a Hot Havana Night Page 8