Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

by Louise Fuller

  ‘How long ago did it happen?’ he said softly.

  ‘Five years.’

  Her answer shocked him more than finding out that she’d been married and widowed. She’d been so young to have her world implode like that.

  ‘It isn’t in your file.’

  She frowned. ‘No, it’s not. Because I don’t want it to be. It’s not a secret—it’s just that I don’t want it to be how I’m defined.’

  He could hear the tangle of emotions in her voice—the pain, the anger, the defiance.

  ‘Do you know what I mean? Have you ever had something happen to you that you don’t want to share with strangers? That’s private to you?’

  Her eyes were fixed on his face and he felt her question resonate through him. Thinking back to his own past, and how desperately he had tried to distance himself from his weakness and stupidity, he nodded. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me Kitty.’

  ‘I know I don’t, but I want to.’ She took a step forward. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe in love, it’s that I can’t believe in it. I can’t feel that way again. But I don’t want to pretend either.’

  It took him two strides to reach her. Pulling her into his arms, he breathed out unsteadily, and then, before he even knew that it was what he wanted to do, he was lowering his face, brushing his lips over her hair and inhaling her scent.

  ‘It’s okay. I understand,’ he murmured.

  He felt her body tense, and then she leaned into him. Blocking off the thoughts swirling inside his mind, he rested his head against hers.

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’ She looked up into his eyes. ‘I don’t want to be unfair. This is your child too.’

  He swallowed. With her face so close to his, and her warm, soft skin beneath his hands, everything felt possible. No obstacle was too big. Not even her past.

  Or his.

  ‘I know. And, however ineptly I expressed it before,’ he replied, ‘I meant what I said. I want to give my child the kind of loving family home I had. I know we can’t do that as husband and wife, but is there any way we could try and find some kind of middle ground?’

  ‘Like what?’

  She was trying to be fair, but he knew that one wrong word would cause her to bolt.

  ‘We hardly know each other, and that’s only going to make everything harder in the future, when we need to be able to communicate. If you mean what you say about not being unfair, then we can’t stay as strangers.’

  She nodded. ‘So what do you have in mind?’

  His heart was beating steadily now. ‘Let’s spend some time together. I think you should move in to the main house. Just until you go back to England,’ he said carefully. ‘There’s plenty of room, and I’m sure your family would feel happier knowing you were being looked after, so let me take care of you. Just for now.’

  He waited, watching her face, trying not to let the tension show in his own, and then his heart began to beat with relief and triumph as her eyes met his and she nodded slowly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘WOULD YOU LIKE some ham, Señora Quested? Or perhaps a couple of eggs?’

  Gazing at her already overcrowded plate, Kitty smiled up at the dark-haired woman standing beside her and shook her head. ‘No, thank you, Rosa. Honestly, this is perfect.’

  She glanced guiltily at the plates of food surrounding her. It all looked delicious, but even if she was eating for two, she wasn’t going to make much of a dent in this spread.

  Her heart jerked. But perhaps it was not all meant for her? As though following the workings of her brain, Rosa shook her head.

  ‘Señor Zayas always eats breakfast early,’ she said, leaning forward to refill Kitty’s glass. ‘But he told me that he’s hoping to join you for lunch.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Her smile felt suddenly cemented to her face. Were her thoughts that obvious? Swallowing her juice, trying to ignore the heat rising over her throat and cheeks, she met Rosa’s soft brown eyes. ‘Then I’ll see him at lunch.’

  She had no idea what César had told Rosa about their relationship. Did a man in his position explain the dynamic between himself and a guest to his staff? Probably not. She certainly couldn’t imagine him doing it and she certainly wasn’t going to try to do so. Not least because right now she wasn’t exactly sure how to explain their relationship herself.

  They weren’t a couple.

  But he was the father of her unborn child.

  And now they were living together.

  She felt a twitch of guilt. Living with César was supposed to reassure her family, and yet now, two days after moving into the main house, she still hadn’t told either her parents or Lizzie that she was pregnant or cohabiting with the baby’s father.

  But how could she? Why would she?

  Whatever he might have suggested the other day, they both knew it was only a temporary arrangement. At the moment her pregnancy was new and strange, and César felt guilty and responsible, but once she was back in England he would find it easy to move on with his life.

  Carefully she laid her knife and fork side by side on the plate. In a way, hadn’t that already happened? She might be living under his roof, but she’d barely seen him. They’d been like moons orbiting a planet: occasionally, unavoidably their paths would cross—

  But of course she hadn’t seen him. Irritably, she pushed aside the disappointment she didn’t want or have any right to feel. He was flat-out unpacking his work schedule—for her.

  Anyway, at least not having him around meant she was free of the disconcerting undercurrent of tension between them. Her throat tightened. She’d tried hard to pretend that it wasn’t there, but it was—and that was another reason not to speak to Lizzie.

  She needed to get a handle on this confusion she felt for César. Living with him and being pregnant was obviously a big deal, but so what if she was temporarily sharing his home? Or that right now, at least, he wanted to be a part of their baby’s life.

  Being a parent was a lifelong commitment that needed solid foundations. All they had was one, brief, explosive sexual encounter that meant nothing to either of them.

  And, truthfully, it didn’t matter how sublime their passion had been, it had nothing to do with the tenderness or the love she’d felt for her husband and nor would it. Because feeling that kind of tenderness and love for someone, anyone—even the father of her child—was not something she was capable of doing any more.

  Her skin tightened as she heard the sound of footsteps—heavy, determined, male—in the hallway, and her eyes darted involuntarily towards the door. But the nervous smile that was pulling at her mouth stopped mid-curve as the man glanced briefly into the breakfast room, nodding politely as he walked past.

  Her pulse twitched. It was only César’s driver—Rodolfo.

  Ten minutes later, having finished her breakfast, she found herself standing aimlessly in the soaring entrance hall. Gazing up the stairs, she chewed her lip. She could go up to her room, but that would mean being alone with her thoughts.

  Breathing out, she put her hand on the bannister—and then hesitated. Somebody, maybe Rodolfo, had left the door to the terrace open, and she could see two stripes of vivid contrasting blue where the sea met the sky.

  It looked temptingly tranquil—unlike her thoughts—and so, turning away from the stairs, she began walking towards the door.

  After weeks of self-imposed imprisonment in the labs it felt good to feel the sun on her face, but soon the lacy clouds would disperse and it would be too hot. She found a path beneath the shade of some tamarind trees and wandered slowly over the heat-baked ground, always aware of the main house at the edge of her vision.

  It would be easy to stay out here in the shade, and part of her still shied away from the moment when she would come face to face with César, but maybe that was just what she needed. Spending time wi
th him was the quickest, surest way to see through the glamour and past the passion and so transform him from overheated fantasy into cool reality. After all, no man could be that desirable twenty-four-seven.

  She made her way out of the woods that edged the dunes, drawn to the sound of the waves, her face lowered as she scoured the blindingly white sand for pieces of driftwood. She had half an idea for a mobile for the baby—some part of his or her homeland when they were back in England—but for some reason now that she was here on the beach even just the idea of going home made her body tense.

  Sighing, she lifted her face, intending to scan the sea instead and instantly her body and brain froze and her stomach went into freefall.

  She was not alone.

  César was on the beach with a lean, dark-haired man she didn’t recognise. And they were fighting, their breathing loud in the still morning air.

  Her heart began pounding like a jackhammer.

  They were a couple of metres away, moving quickly and smoothly in the sunlight like water, their bodies bent forward, legs arcing through the air, wrists twisting and fists connecting with skin and bone.

  Seconds later her brain stuttered back to life and she felt her pulse slow as she realised that both men were identically dressed in loose white trousers.

  So not an actual fight, then, but some kind of sparring session. Only it looked real, and it looked as if they were actually hurting one another. And yet César’s face was calm.

  She gazed at him, confusion mingling with irritation. What was it about this man that made him so determined to push himself to the limit? Wasn’t it enough that he ran a global business? His day-to-day working life held enough risk and drama for most people, but apparently he needed something extra. Rawer. Unrestrained.

  Her legs felt suddenly stiff with the effort of tensing them. She needed to move but wanted to hide.

  Breathing in, she took a step back and trod heavily on a stick.

  It snapped, and the crack echoed like a gunshot across the sand, bouncing off the trees and the water so that both men turned towards her. She caught a swift flash of green as César’s eyes locked on hers, widening with surprise, and then sensing weakness, his opponent curved his leg upwards, and her pulse jerked as César was thrown down and landed heavily on the sand.

  Kitty blinked. It had all happened so fast.

  Just like on the road.

  Only this time her legs simply wouldn’t move.

  She watched mutely as the dark-haired man held out his arm and pulled César to his feet. They exchanged a few words, shook hands, and then César turned and walked towards her, padding across the sand like a mountain lion.

  Her heart was beating in her mouth as he stopped in front of her. He was silhouetted black against the sunlight, his features in darkness, but she could feel his gaze all over her. And then he took a step closer, and as he came into focus she was conscious of her sudden audible intake of breath.

  He’d clearly been working hard. His trousers were saturated with sweat around the waistband and his body was stippled with beads of perspiration. The ridges of his muscles were sharply defined, and his skin glowed like lacquered gold. She knew her reaction was showing on her face but she couldn’t pull her eyes away, and she gazed at him, dry-mouthed, clamping her hands behind her back so as not to give in to an almost overwhelming desire to reach out and pull the draw-cord loose.

  Remembering her careless assumption that living with César would strip him of his glamour, she gritted her teeth. Clearly there was a long way to go before that happened.

  ‘You seem to be making a bit of a habit of this,’ he said softly.

  She swallowed. ‘A habit of what?’

  He held her gaze. ‘Knocking me off my feet.’

  Her skin felt warm. There was a shimmering tension in the air, low and taut, like the hum of an audience waiting for a play to start. Not touching him was an actual test of willpower like not scratching a mosquito bite.

  Startled by the strength of her desire, she cleared her throat and said, ‘I didn’t knock you off your feet. I was over here, minding my own business. You just weren’t paying attention.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s pretty much what Oscar just said to me.’

  Her heart stumbled against her ribs. Being around César was supposed to be a sobering reality check, but when his mouth turned up at the corners like that, with the sunlight glittering in his eyes, he was irresistible.

  ‘Oscar?’ She was trying to control her voice, but she could hear the catch of nervousness.

  ‘My instructor.’

  Glancing past him, she breathed out. ‘So, what is he teaching you?’ Part of her was really interested, but mainly she was just grateful to break away from his deep, green gaze.

  ‘It’s called Eskrima. It’s a martial art. Shall we...?’

  He gestured towards the house and they began walking back up the beach. It was easier talking to him sideways. For starters, she wasn’t having to deal with the continuing shock of his beauty, but also the conversation seemed to flow more naturally with each step.

  ‘Is it Cuban?’

  He shook his head. ‘It comes from the Philippines. I was spending quite a lot of time down there a couple of years ago.’ His eyes met hers. ‘They drink a lot of rum there.’

  ‘Yes, it’s the third largest market in the world.’ She matched his easy smile with a small, tight one of her own. ‘They have their own brands, don’t they? Lizzie and Bill went on holiday there last year, and they brought me back a bottle. It was a limited edition.’ She hesitated, groping for a memory of how it had tasted. ‘It was dark...quite oaky.’

  ‘Yeah, they char the barrels.’ He frowned. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to get sidetracked into talking about work. Basically, when I was there my regular personal trainer, Félix, had an accident, and he recommended Oscar. And Oscar is a Lakan—a black belt in Eskrima.’

  He broke off and glanced up, his attention snagged by a low rumble overhead. Her gaze following his, she watched a dark green plane cut through the cloudless blue sky on its way to the US military base at Guantánamo Bay. As it disappeared from view she looked back down and instantly wished she hadn’t. He was looking at her intently, and suddenly her hands were trembling.

  ‘I spoke to the clinic.’ His voice sounded harsh against the waves. ‘They’ve arranged a scan for this morning and then we’ll see Dr Moreno.’

  She blinked. ‘Oh, okay...’

  ‘Apparently it’s to date the pregnancy.’

  His eyes were steady, his expression neutral, but she felt a defensive jolt shoot through her. Although had she really thought that a man like him would simply accept her word?

  She felt a sudden hot rush of tears, and in an instant her mood flipped.

  In the five years since Jimmy’s death she’d worked hard to find some kind of peace and equilibrium, only since meeting César she’d felt like a ship at sea, pushed and pulled in every direction by emotional currents and riptides. Emotions she couldn’t control. Emotions she didn’t understand.

  And it wasn’t just hormones, she thought with a burst of irrational anger. It was his fault she was feeling like this. His fault she was feeling so conflicted. His fault she was remembering how it felt to want someone, and need them. Only she wasn’t supposed to feel like that for this handsome stranger.

  If only this was Jimmy’s baby it would all be so much simpler...

  ‘Kitty—’

  She knew her expression must have changed, and that he’d noticed. She could hear it in his voice. But, striving to keep her own voice on an even keel, she cut him off. ‘What time is the scan?’

  He stared at her, and for a few half-seconds she thought he was going to rewind the conversation, but after a brief silence he said, ‘Eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be ready.’ They were inside the ho
use now, and she glanced pointedly upstairs. ‘I’m feeling a little tired, so I’m going to go and have a lie-down.’

  He stepped back. ‘Then I’ll let you go. I’ll see you at eleven.’

  And, turning, he walked away from her towards the kitchen.

  She watched him disappear. If he had turned he would have seen the way her eyes followed him. But he didn’t turn and, feeling a stab of betrayal that was as baffling as it was painful, she turned and began climbing up the stairs.

  * * *

  Kitty was relieved to discover that the clinic César had chosen looked more like an upmarket hotel than a private hospital. In the car on the way over she had been tense, her stomach knotting as memories of the numerous trips she’d made to hospital with Jimmy kept floating into her mind, but the foyer was clean and modern, and the smiling staff were dressed to match the decor in varying shades of taupe and cream.

  And now she was lying on a bed, her bare stomach covered in gel, as the female sonographer moved the probe over her skin, tilting it from one side to the other, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her.

  ‘There we are,’ she said quietly. ‘There’s your baby.’

  Kitty glanced up at the screen and felt her heart contract. The sonographer spoke very good English, which was lucky. Because had she been speaking Spanish, it would have been easy for her to think that something had got lost in translation.

  Her breathing was suddenly out of time. She could hardly believe it. The baby was tiny, but it was real. She really was pregnant. It was extraordinary, impossible, miraculous. But, like all real miracles, it was undeniable.

  ‘And this is the head...that’s a leg and a foot...and that’s the heartbeat.’

  The sonographer was smiling at her and she smiled back dazedly. She’d held that positive test in her hand, but up until this moment she hadn’t believed it was actually happening, hadn’t wanted to believe it was true for fear of disappointment. But it was true. Finally it had happened. And she felt so blissfully and unconditionally happy that it was as though her whole body was filled with light.