And suddenly, we were through. No passport. No paperwork. “Did you just bribe him?” I asked, stunned.
Rourke blinked at me as if all this was completely normal. That’s when I realized it was, for him.
In moments, we were in a taxi: a cherry-red Chevy straight out of the 1950s, with bench seats and lots of polished chrome. Rourke sat back, looking like some unshaven visiting dignitary in his black pants and white shirt. Havana’s streets seemed as familiar to him as Nassau. Back on the ship, I’d seen him root through a wooden box of currency and fill his wallet with Cuban Pesos. There’d been at least twenty other currencies there. Was there anywhere he hadn’t been?
To me, though, it was all new and magical. I stared out of the window, entranced: beautiful old stone buildings, some of them painted in brilliant pastel shades; vintage cars; throngs of locals and tourists heading out for the night. The sun was just going down and everything was being lit up in golds, coppers, and reds. It hit me that I’d already had more new experiences, in the last few days, than I had in the previous few years back home.
Rourke had a muttered conversation with the taxi driver, both of them throwing glances my way. The driver laughed and nodded, then took us to a back street where shops had been set up in stone archways. Most were already dark and empty but one still glowed with light. Rourke opened my door for me and I climbed out...then turned and stared at Rourke in surprise. The archway was full of dresses.
He gave a little shrug. “You can’t walk around in my clothes forever. But hurry. This place is about to close.”
I blinked at him for a second, blown away by the gesture. But before I could thank him, he gave another shrug and looked away down the street. He doesn’t want me thinking he’s nice.
An elderly woman stepped forward, pointing warningly at her watch. I hurried into the archway.
All around me were racks of dresses. But not simple summer dresses. These were silky, ruffled creations with lots of skirt and low necklines and they were as brightly colored as everything else in Havana. I held one up in amazement, then turned to show Rourke. “Where did you bring me?!”
He rubbed at his stubble, looking embarrassed. “I told the cab driver you needed something to wear. But I think he thought you were my wife.”
The old lady made hurry up gestures.
I grabbed a scarlet dress at random. The old lady motioned to the changing room: a blanket that hung down to knee level.
I darted behind it and stripped off the borrowed t-shirt and shorts, being careful of the bandage on my wrist. Then, when I saw how low-cut the dress was, I cursed and added my bra to the pile. Now I was standing in my panties, shielded from the street only by a blanket.
I was standing there trying to figure out if I should step into the dress or pull it over my head when I felt Rourke’s gaze. I looked down, the dress gathered in my arms. The only bit of me that was visible to him was the naked backs of my calves, not a part of me I’d ever even thought about. And yet right then, I could feel them being studied, his stare so intense I wanted to shift from foot to foot. The heat that rippled up to my groin was stronger than I’d ever felt from some guy back home staring at my breasts, or ass, or even my whole body.
I struggled into the dress. It was clingy and tight all the way down to the skirt, which was slashed diagonally: one side went down almost to my knee but the other side came almost up to my groin, and it was finished with a long fringe that swished every time I moved. There was a zipper up the back but it was too low to reach and I was painfully aware the old lady was going to toss us out on the street any moment. “Um…Rourke?”
I heard the creak of Rourke’s shoes as he walked closer. Then: “Hannah?”
I’ve always thought of Hannah as a farmer’s daughter’s name, a name you yell across the fields to get me to come in for supper, bawling that final ah. In Rourke’s accent it was transformed. It became mysterious and quick: a rasp of the H and a quick ripple over the ns. A name said breathlessly. I flushed.
“I think I’m going to need you to zip me up,” I said, keeping my eyes straight ahead.
I heard the blanket move aside behind me. Then nothing. He just stood there looking at me for far, far longer than was necessary. The exposed skin of my back prickled all the way from my neck to the top of my panties and another ripple of heat went through me.
I felt him take hold of the zipper and slide it up...slowly. The metallic rasp seemed to go on forever as the dress tightened around me and his eyes burned into my back. He was standing so close, I could feel each hot breath on my neck.
I turned around, looking down at myself at the same time. Wow. The dress clung to every curve: I’d never worn anything so figure-hugging. And there was a lot of pale leg and cleavage on display. Where the hell do women wear dresses like this?
Then I looked up.
Rourke was standing only a foot away, gazing down at me. His gaze didn’t so much strip the dress from my body as burn it right off. His eyes slid down my neck and along the curves of my breasts. They followed the scarlet fabric as it went in and then out over my waist and hips and then tracked all the way down my bare legs. The heat blazed across my skin and then sank inward, growing and tightening. When he reached my feet, he came back up again even slower.
“I feel ridiculous,” I said.
He looked me right in the eye. “You don’t look ridiculous.”
The old lady was complaining that she needed to close. Rourke hushed her, handed over some bills, and then asked me my shoe size. Moments later, I was slipping on a pair of scarlet heels. The old lady started to pull the shutters down even as we stepped back out onto the street.
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. However over-the-top the dress was, it felt good to be wearing something that fit me again.
He gazed at me and it was a long time before he finally tore his eyes away and looked off into the distance. “You’re welcome,” he muttered at last.
As we got back onto the main streets, I didn’t feel so self-conscious. Lots of women were wearing dresses like mine and lots of the men were dressed like Rourke, in pants and shirts. But why? Where were they all going?
“So who’s this guy we’re going to see?” I asked as we walked.
“Hobbs. A history buff.”
“A friend of yours?”
He gave me a sour look. “I don’t have friends. He helps me, sometimes, and I pay him.”
I was still thinking how sad that sounded when he suddenly stopped and grabbed my hand. I looked down in shock at our joined hands and then up at him, my face flushed and my heart racing. But he wasn’t looking at me. I followed his gaze down the street.
Ratcher had stepped out of a bar fifty yards ahead of us, his bald head gleaming with sweat. One of his crew burst out of another bar and shook his head at Ratcher, who barked orders. Other men I recognized from the villa were emerging from other bars: two, three, and four...God, Ratcher had his whole crew searching for us!
“Fuck!” said Rourke, squeezing my hand. Fuck would never sound the same to me again, after that. It just sounded right, said in his rough Scottish accent, the verbal equivalent of a brick through a window. He turned, still holding my hand, and led me in a fast walk in the opposite direction. “Don’t look round!”
I nodded, panic driving all the air from my lungs. I tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, walking quickly but inconspicuously. But I could feel the presence of Ratcher behind me, every hair on the back of my neck standing up. Any second, I expected a hand to grab my shoulder. “How did he know we were in Havana?” I asked, my voice cracking in fear.
“Someone probably spotted the Fortune’s Hope coming into port and tipped him off,” said Rourke. “Or saw us in the street. People here know me.” He suddenly stopped in his tracks. “Bollocks!”
Two more of Ratcher’s men were coming the other way. I moaned in fear when I saw the knife one of them had on his belt. Then my stomach lurched: I could see
the butt of a handgun poking out of the other one’s waistband. We were trapped. I looked around in panic. For all its color, Havana suddenly seemed to have a lot of dark alleys it would be easy for them to hustle us into. And they’d see us in another few seconds.
“In here!” Rourke snapped and pulled me into what I thought was a bar. It was only when we got inside that I discovered where all those women in dresses like mine had been heading. It was a dance club: crowds eight deep were watching as couples spun around a dance floor. Rourke pulled me into the crowd but, through the windows, I could see Ratcher’s men approaching. They were searching each club in turn, I realized...and they were heading for ours.
I looked at Rourke just as he turned to me. When I saw his eyes, I caught my breath. The deep blue was lit up with protective fury. I’d never seen that before, never had any man feel that about me.
He pulled the message and the ruby from his pocket and stuffed them into my hand. “Take these,” he growled. “Stay here.”
I nodded. But as he moved toward the door, I saw him put his hand on his sword. I grabbed his arm. “Wait: that’s your plan? There are two of them, plus all the rest coming down the street! One of them’s got a gun!”
His hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. “Aye,” he said. “Well, I’m not—”
He bit back what he was going to say but he kept staring into my eyes. I’m not going to let them get you. My stomach flip-flopped.
The door opened and Ratcher’s men stalked in, eyes everywhere. They didn’t see us, but they started searching the crowd. Rourke pulled against my grip, trying to reach them before they reached us. I imagined the fight that would ensue. Rourke dragged into a back alley, a knife between his ribs. I looked around wildly but I couldn’t see another exit.
Rourke tried to shake my hand off, his sword already drawn halfway. No! There had to be another way. But Ratcher’s men were methodically working through the throng of people. They’d find us wherever we went in the crowd—
Unless we’re not in the crowd.
My stomach lurched just at the thought of it. I’m basically a mouse. Give me a quiet place and a book to curl up with and I’m happy. Being the center of attention is not my thing.
But if I didn’t do this, Rourke was going to wind up in a fight that’d cost him his life. He’d saved me. Now I had to save him.
I hauled on Rourke’s arm. “Come with me!” I didn’t give him a choice, dragging him deeper into the crowd.
“What are you doing?” he snapped. “Wherever we go, they’ll see us!”
“Not—”—I shouldered my way past a couple of tourists—“if we—excuse me—” We reached the edge of the dance floor and I turned and grabbed his other hand. “...dance.” I finished breathlessly.
23
Rourke
I was ready to die, fingers wrapped around the hilt of my sword, thumb lovingly caressing the carved detail. Not a bad way to go out. Not the way I’d planned: I’d always thought it would be the sea that took me. But if that’s what it took to protect her then so be it.
The only problem was, I wasn’t sure I could stop all of them. And once I was dead, Ratcher would grab Hannah for himself.
And for his crew. My stomach twisted and my lips drew back over my teeth in a snarl. No. No fucking way.
Then Hannah was pulling me through the crowd. She was only a wee thing: I could have easily stood my ground. But I didn’t want to hurt her by pulling out of her grip. And then we were at the edge of the dance floor and she was grabbing my other hand and telling me we had to dance.
Dance?! I stared at her. We were trying to hide and she wanted to make us the center of attention?
She nodded over my shoulder. “They’re checking the crowd,” she said hotly. “They’re not checking the dancers.”
I looked and... damn, she was right. Ratcher’s men expected to find me propping up the bar or buried in the crowd, watching. They weren’t even glancing towards the dance floor. And if we got right out in the middle, we’d be hidden by all the other couples. It was actually a good plan.
Except...dance?! I’d rather take my chances with Ratcher’s men.
She pulled me out into the middle of the dance floor but I just stood there. I can’t do this. I’ve got a gammy leg, for God’s sake.
But then, as if to tempt me, she started to dance.
She wasn’t like the other women on the dance floor, a mix of locals and confident tourists. She didn’t know the moves that went with the fast, Latin beat. But she had a beauty that eclipsed all of them and her body….
I swallowed. Aye, she had the body for it. The dress’s diagonal slit exposed all of one leg, right up to the hip, and the heels made her already long legs seem endless. As she turned and flexed to the beat, her ass came into view, ripe and full and perfect. It swayed and dipped before me, hypnotic. I wanted to grab hold of it with both hands and squeeze.
And her breasts. Dear God, her breasts, the creamy weight of them pushing forward as she arched her back. She bent her knees, grinding to the beat, long legs flashing...and then she met my eyes and beckoned me forward.
Something snapped inside me. I stormed forward and grabbed hold of my woman.
24
Hannah
At first, I was terrified. I felt like every woman around me was staring, wondering what the hell the pale, curvy American thought she was doing. I slinked and twisted and writhed and felt like a complete idiot.
But when I focused on Rourke, all of that disappeared. Watching him was like watching a huge, powerful attack dog snapping and growling, desperate to reach me, held back only by a chain. And the chain—his self-control—was weakening. His gaze sent a rush of heat through me, my skin throbbing. The people watching ceased to exist: it was just me dancing and him watching. And I didn’t feel like a timid mouse, anymore. The dress helped: it was like being dressed in liquid sex, hugging my curves, and swishing around my legs. I rolled my hips, shook my ass and beckoned…
And suddenly, Rourke was storming towards me. One big hand clasped mine. The other took hold of my waist and—God, I wanted to melt into it, it felt so right. Strong and warm and confident, guiding me, controlling me. I had to look way up to meet his eyes, we were so close, and I gasped at what I saw there. The lust had filled his eyes completely: he’d let himself go, given himself up to raw need. For a second he just held me there, my breasts pillowed against those hard pecs.
And then, to my amazement, he danced.
It wasn’t the fast, look at me moves of the men around us. That wouldn’t have worked, with his imposing size. This was simple and classic, masterful and confident. From the moment he took my hand, there was no question of who was leading whom.
At first, I was confused as to why his leg wasn’t bothering him. Then I saw the pain in his eyes: it was hurting like hell...but his lust, his need for me, was overriding it. The thought of that rippled down through me, lighting me up, turning to molten heat in my groin. He was hardness and power and brute strength, marching me like this, then twirling me around like that. I caught my breath: for the first time in my life, I felt graceful. And I’d never felt so alive.
He twirled me, one arm overhead, his eyes never leaving mine. He marched me, thigh-to-thigh, and I could feel how hard he was and that he knew that I knew. Where the hell did he learn to dance? Was it a British thing? I could imagine James Bond dancing like this. Did they teach all the Brits at school?
As the music reached its peak, he pulled me tight to him. Leaned me back over his arm, my hair sweeping towards the floor. His lips descended until they were a hair’s-breadth from mine….
And the music ended. My eyes fluttered open and I saw him gazing down at me, eyes blazing. He lifted me upright but didn’t let go of me. The other couples around us were kissing, giggly and excited as they walked away. But Rourke was the opposite: he was stone-cold serious, solid, and immovable in the middle of the dance floor as the others flowed around us. His hand cupped my cheek
, tilting my head up towards him. His thumb stroked across my skin and a tremor went through me. For fully three seconds, he stared down at me, those deep blue eyes scalding hot, melting me, and destroying me. This is your fault, he told me sternly. Your fault.
And I swallowed and panted as he leaned down to kiss me.
25
Rourke
Those blush pink lips. Those blue eyes gazing up at me. It was too powerful to fight.
I leaned down to kiss her.
My lips were a half-inch from hers when my leg erupted in white-hot pain. I fought it back, just like I had all the way through the dance. But it was enough to remind me. You damn fool. She’s a wee thing with her whole life ahead of her.
And I was a cripple who lived on his boat because it was all I understood. Who talked to Edwards and a damn monkey instead of having friends. Who looked at the horizon every day and wondered if today was the day the sea would take me.
The proper place for her was Nebraska. Where some damn farmer could play guitar to her under a tree and make her a bloody picnic and all that stuff. He’d get to kiss her. They’d get married, have two children and a faithful dog.
My job, my only role in the life of this woman, was to make sure she lived to see that future.
I twisted away and looked around. Ratcher’s men were gone.
I turned back to Hannah. She was blinking up at me, confused. Then—my heart twisted—disappointed. Oh Jesus, if she’d known how close I’d come. Once my lips touched hers, I wouldn’t have stopped kissing her until we were in a bunk.
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