Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

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.