Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

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.