“I’ve come to court your daughter, Senor Diaz.”
Jose Luis inclined his head. “Thank you for being truthful. Now I’m going to be truthful with you. There has been talk—a lot of talk—about photographs of Marguerite-Josefina—”
“I’ve seen the photographs,” Samuel said quietly, interrupting him.
“You were not bothered by them?”
He wanted to laugh at the older man’s pained expression. “Not at all. Marguerite-Josefina happens to be an incredibly beautiful young woman.”
Clasping his hands in a prayerful gesture, Jose Luis gave Samuel a direct stare. “They are shameful, Samuel. Men who would’ve considered marrying my daughter now think of her as soiled goods.”
“Then those men are fools.”
The words came out more harshly than Samuel wanted them to. He did not want to be disrespectful or insult the elder Diaz, not when he was residing under the man’s roof while at the same time requesting permission to court his daughter.
“And you would not think of yourself as a fool to want to be seen with her, Samuel?”
Samuel’s impassive expression did not change. “No. Not in Cuba or in the United States.”
Jose Luis was hard-pressed not to smile when Samuel mentioned the United States. He lowered his hands, resting them on the arms of the chair. “You are thinking of taking Marguerite-Josefina to the United States?”
“I would. But only as Mrs. Samuel Cole.”
He sat forward on the chair. “You want to marry her?”
The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of Samuel’s mouth. He had spent the past four weeks thinking about M.J., her outspokenness, delightful laugh, wit, intelligence and hypnotic beauty. He’d found himself comparing her to the other women in his past, but none had lingered with him beyond their brief encounters.
He knew M.J. was different the moment she sensed his dilemma over which fork he should select for the first course at the Moreno dinner party. And with the wave of anti-American sentiment on the island she could’ve waited for him to make a social faux pas that would’ve garnered the ridicule of those at the table.
Samuel angled his head, studying the man sitting less than five feet from him. “It is too soon to speak of marriage. I’m interested in getting to know Marguerite-Josefina. That is why I’ve returned to Cuba. But in order to propose marriage I would have to find myself in love with her.”
“While you are contemplating falling in love with Marguerite-Josefina, I believe it is only fair to apprise you that she is to be promised to another.”
A muscle twitched in Samuel’s lean jaw as he went completely still. “What do you mean promised?”
“I’ve arranged for my daughter’s betrothal to the son of a business associate.”
“What the hell do you mean by arranged?” Samuel’s quick temper had gotten the better of him. It was as if he’d learned nothing from his father’s daily whippings for talking back.
Jose Luis, seemingly unperturbed by the outburst, said, “I’ve spoken to Pedro Acevedo about offering my daughter’s hand in marriage. They will marry December twenty-seventh.”
Samuel felt a roaring in his head. It was the same sensation as being held underwater. “Does she know?” His voice was a whisper.
“She knows I’ve spoken to Senor Acevedo.”
“Does she know about the wedding date?”
Jose Luis shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Don’t tell her.”
“I don’t understand.”
Samuel’s head was filled with a jumble of thoughts and questions to which he had no answers. They were one-fourth into the twentieth century and in the Western Hemisphere, and he couldn’t believe women were still being forced into arranged marriages.
He uncrossed his legs and placed both feet firmly on the priceless Persian carpet. His dark eyes burned with a strange, lethal fire. “I said don’t tell her.”
“But, Senor—”
“Shut up and listen to me,” Samuel said between clenched teeth, cutting off Jose Luis’s entreaty. “I’ll marry your daughter, but only if she will have me as her husband.”
Leaning back in his chair, Jose Luis closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer of thanksgiving. It had worked. He’d gotten Samuel Cole to agree to marry Marguerite-Josefina.
He opened his eyes and stared at the arrogant American. “She will agree.”
Shocked by the enormity of what he’d proposed, Samuel took in deep breaths to slow down his pounding heart. He’d just offered to marry a woman he’d seen briefly during one encounter, a woman he didn’t know, a woman with a quick tongue who he was certain would challenge him without regard to the consequences, a woman who would be the perfect hostess for their soirees, and a woman who was certain to give him beautiful, intelligent children.
“What makes you so certain she will?”
A knowing smile crinkled the skin around Jose Luis’s jet-black eyes. “You are young and you are also not, as she refers to Senor Acevedo, a frog.” His smile widened as Samuel lowered his head and forced back a grin. “You are also a Negro.”
Samuel’s head snapped up. “Why should that matter?”
Jose Luis sobered. “It matters because the blood of Africa also runs in my veins. My grandmother was a black woman—a Cuban slave who gave my grandfather his only child and heir. My mulatto father was educated in Spain, and while there he married a Spanish woman and brought her back to Cuba. She and four of my brothers died from yellow fever in seventy-three, leaving Papa to raise my sister, Gloria, and me.
“I waited until I was forty-three to marry, and Carlotta made me a father at forty-five. Carlotta was carrying our second child when she was injured in a riding accident. A feral pig frightened her horse and she fell and lay bleeding for several hours until I found her. The doctor couldn’t stop the bleeding and she died the next day. The hardest thing I ever had to do was tell my four-year-old daughter that her mother was never coming back. When she was six I sent her to a convent because I felt she needed to be around other girls her own age.”
Samuel studied the face of the man who was to become his father-in-law. “You never remarried?”
He shook his head. “No. It took me almost forty years to find a woman like Carlotta, and I wasn’t willing to spend the next forty looking for someone to replace her. I love my daughter, even though there are times when I don’t show it, because she is so headstrong and rebellious.”
Samuel smiled. “She’s a modern woman.”
“Too modern for Cuba,” Jose Luis countered.
“Too modern for Cuba or too modern for you?”
A flush spread over Jose Luis’s face as he swallowed a retort. He didn’t want to debate with Samuel about how the island’s proximity and economic ties to the United States substantially influenced Cuban culture. North American social mores had significantly affected Cuban social mores, especially in urban cities like Havana.
Reaching for the decanter, Samuel poured a small amount of sherry into both glasses, handing one to Jose Luis. They touched glasses. “To family,” he said in a quiet voice.
“La familia,” Jose Luis repeated in Spanish.
Sharing a smile, the two men tossed back their drinks in a single swallow. Samuel felt a wave of warmth settle in his chest as a pleasant nutty flavor lingered on his palate.
“Do you like it?” Jose Luis asked, seeing Samuel’s expression.
“Yes. I like it much better than French wine.”
Jose Luis snorted. “The French. What do they know? Now, Spanish wine is magnifico.”
Samuel held out his glass for a refill, and as he stared at the sherry he recalled all that had happened to him within the short span of a month: he’d become an exporter and importer of fruits and vegetables, and he’d promised a man he would marry his daughter before the end of the year.
He’d committed his future to a stranger—a woman whose first language he didn’t understand, a convent-educated woman who
’d permitted a photographer to capture her sensuality, and a woman he would bring to the United States, his home and country that would become her country and her home.
Samuel, seated opposite Gloria Diaz at a table in the smaller of the two dining rooms in the exquisitely decorated home, watched M.J. as she nodded to a serving girl that she was ready for the next course. The gesture was only discernible to those staring at her, and despite what Gloria had told him about her niece’s unorthodox views regarding the class into which she’d been born, the result was that Marguerite-Josefina was undeniably a product of her upbringing.
Gloria, sporting a stylish salt-and-pepper bob hairdo, touched the corners of her mouth with a napkin. She’d exchanged her man’s shirt and trousers for a simple shirtwaist dress.
“I just received a call from a friend who’s only going to be in Havana for a few days, so I’ve decided to drive back early tomorrow to spend some time with her.”
An expression of distress furrowed M.J.’s smooth forehead. “Tia, you promised—”
“It’s okay, Chica,” Jose Luis said. “She can go back to Havana.”
M.J.’s eyebrows lifted. “But, Papa. Who is going to chaperone me and Samuel?”
Jose Luis stared at her, then Samuel. “You won’t need a chaperone if Samuel treats you like the lady you’ve been raised to be.”
Samuel stared back at Jose Luis. “You have my word as a gentleman that no harm will come to your daughter.” It was a repeat of what he’d promised him in the Moreno garden.
There was a pregnant pause before Jose Luis spoke again. “Okay.”
M.J. forced herself to remain seated when she wanted to jump up and throw her arms around her father’s neck and kiss him. She would note this day in her diary as the first day of her emancipation.
Gloria’s hazel eyes twinkled mischievously behind the lenses of her glasses. Her brother had revealed the details of his conversation with Samuel Cole and his decision to withdraw the offer of his daughter’s hand in marriage to Pedro Acevedo in favor of her marrying the americano.
She’d told her older brother that the attraction between M.J. and Samuel would progress more quickly without her presence.
Gloria was grateful that her mother hadn’t lived long enough to witness her only daughter’s unconventional lifestyle. Jose Luis complained about Marguerite-Josefina shaming the Diaz name when all she’d done was pose for a photographer wearing a revealing dressing gown.
When she’d traveled throughout Europe and Africa she’d done things so wicked that once she returned to Cuba she sought out a priest for absolution.
Gloria smiled. She was proud of her niece. M.J. had challenged her father’s archaic ways of thinking, and won. Gloria stole a glance at Samuel Cole, and her smile widened. Marguerite-Josefina Isabel Diaz had chosen well. And there was something about the American that indicated he was destined for greatness. She just hoped she would live long enough to witness it.
Banana leaves obscured Samuel’s face as he leaned against the tree, puffing leisurely on a Cuban cigar. He’d grown quite fond of the taste of the smooth, fragrant tobacco. A near-full moon provided the only light in the darkened area as he inhaled the cloying scent of flowers and damp earth. He was still attempting to come to terms with conspiring with his future father-in-law.
He wanted M.J. to come to him of her own free will and not because she wanted him to rescue her. He was certain he could love M.J. After all, she was perfect in every way.
A rustling, followed by a soft crunching sound, brought him from his leaning position. Peering into the blackness he made out a flash of white; then a figure wearing a flowing white dress came into his line of vision.
“You shouldn’t be out here with me.”
“And why not?”
“It’s not proper, M.J.”
He froze, his breath catching in his throat when he saw her face. She’d let her hair down. He wanted her; he wanted to touch her, kiss her. He wanted her in his bed, her hair fanning out over his pillow, his flesh buried so deeply in hers that they would become one with each other.
“Did not my father give permission for us to be alone together?”
Samuel nodded, wondering how he hadn’t noticed the low, sensual timbre of her voice. It was soft, soothing, intoxicating.
“Then what is the problem, Samuel?”
He wanted to tell M.J. she was the problem. She’d bewitched and taunted him until there were times when he couldn’t think straight. “The problem is that you can’t come to my room again when I’m not presentable.” She moved closer and he felt her warm breath brush his throat.
“It’s not that I haven’t seen a man’s bare chest before. What’s not proper is my sharing your bed. That I would only do with my husband.”
“If that’s the case, then why don’t you wait until I’m your husband before you see my chest again?”
M.J.’s soft gasp was followed by a swollen silence, then the sound of her breathing in a hiccupping, offbeat cadence. She recovered first. “What makes you so certain that I’ll become your wife?”
Samuel put out the cigar against the bark of the tree, the ashes falling to the earth in shimmering red-orange sparks. “You didn’t invite me back to Cuba because you enjoy talking to me.”
“Why do you think I asked you to come back?”
He smiled. “Curiosity.”
Her eyebrows flickered. “Why else?”
He lowered his head, his mouth inches from her ear. “Because you want something from me you can’t get from the men in your country.”
M.J. felt trapped, and it was too late to retreat. “And what is that?”
“Freedom from what you view as a restrictive society. You admire your aunt because of her lifestyle. She has her own money, answers to no one, and is free to come and go by her leave.”
He’d discovered her ruse. He knew she was using him. Blinking back the tears, M.J. turned to run but she wasn’t quick enough as Samuel caught her upper arm.
“Let me go.”
Samuel tightened his grip and turned her around to face him. His free arm curved around her waist. “I can’t let you go, M.J. Not now. Not ever.”
Burying her face against his chest, she wept without making a sound. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled, swiping at the moisture on her cheeks.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Cradling her chin in his hand, he forced her to look up at him. His thumb caressed her lower lip. “I don’t ever want you to apologize to me for something you felt you had to do.” He smiled. “Understand?”
“Sí,” she whispered.
“Good.” Lowering his head, he touched his mouth to hers, increasing the pressure when she moaned softly. The kiss ended as quickly as it had begun. “Now, go back inside before there’s talk about you traipsing in the garden with your americano.”
“What does traipsing mean?”
“Frolicking without a care.”
She wound her arms around his waist. “I don’t have a care.”
Samuel kissed her hair. “Please go, M.J.”
“I don’t want to, Sammy.” She’d sobbed out his name.
The press of her firm breasts awakened the flaccid flesh between his thighs, and Samuel knew if M.J. didn’t leave he would take her where they stood. “Either you go inside or I will.”
M.J. rested her cheek over his heart. “Kiss me again, and I’ll go.”
Samuel tightened his hold on her slender body and kissed her with all of the passion he could summon for a woman. His mouth moved to her jaw, eyes and throat before returning to her moist, parted lips.
He ended the kiss, breathing heavily. “Go! Now!”
M.J. needed no further urging. She’d felt the passion and the fire for the first time in her life. Samuel’s mouth had set hers afire and his hardness made the area between her legs moist and pulsing with a desire that frightened her.
She raced back to the house, up the staircase and into her room, closing and locking the do
or behind her. She peered into a wall mirror; the image staring back at her was a stranger. Her nipples were distended, her pupils dilated and her lips swollen.
Walking on trembling legs, she made it to her bed and lay facedown on the embroidered sheets. She buried her face in the pillow, smothering the soft moans as her flesh betrayed her again.
She lay motionless, long after her moans subsided and the pulsing eased. The last thought she remembered before sleep claimed her was, how long would she have to wait before she would be acknowledged as Senora Marguerite-Josefina Isabel Cole?
Chapter 7
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
M.J. walked into the small space off the sala and came to an abrupt halt. Sitting on the chair she always occupied when reading or doing needlework was the man whom she’d only glimpsed at the dinner table. Samuel Cole, her houseguest, had spent the past week with her father.
The two men spent hours secreted behind the door to Jose Luis’s library, many more hours away from the house, and the night before they’d driven into Havana for a night on the town.
It had become apparent to her that she hadn’t needed a chaperone because her father had monopolized all of Samuel’s time on the island.
Her gaze lingered on him as he came slowly to his feet. He wore his favored guayabera with a pair of off-white cotton slacks and sturdy boots. His face was thinner, the cheekbones more pronounced, which made him look even more like the African masks Antonio collected and included in his paintings.
“Buenos dias, senor.”
A hint of a smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. “Why so formal, Senorita Diaz?”
She bit back a smile, dimples winking attractively. “You think I should not be formal with you? After all, we hardly get to see each other.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You see me now.”
“That I do.”
Samuel wanted to tell M.J. that he had deliberately kept his distance from her because he didn’t want a repeat of what had happened in the garden. Although she regarded herself as a modern freethinker, Marguerite-Josefina was still a woman bound to her culture and class by virtue of birth. She was an upper-class Cuban woman who’d willingly risked her reputation and an opportunity to marry well to consort with an American.
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