Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

‘That’s the problem.’ She pressed her knuckles against her mouth. ‘I wanted a baby for so long, for Jimmy, for us, only now I’m pregnant and he’s not here. And I should be miserable, but I’m not.’

She looked up him, her distress so undisguised that it hurt to look at her.

‘Kitty, it’s okay.’

Watching her attempt to control her tears was worse than seeing her actually cry. Unpeeling her hand from her mouth, he pulled her closer.

‘Look, you’re putting too much pressure on yourself.’

His fingers tightened around hers. Celia’s tears had been meaningless, manufactured on demand to manipulate his emotions, and normally if a woman cried he wanted to leave. But Kitty’s pain was raw and real, and her grief transcended his need...his wish to stay emotionally detached.

And so what if it did? He was only doing what he did every day as CEO of a global business. Doing what he did best: staying calm, making things happen, finding solutions. And in this case that meant holding Kitty’s hand and being strong for her.

‘This is all new and confusing, but it’s okay to be happy about the baby.’

Her eyes were bright. ‘And I am happy—I’m so happy. But I just feel so guilty.’

Guilty. The word resonated inside his head as he stroked her back. He knew all about feeling guilty. Guilt had driven his life, overriding all other impulses, good and bad, and changing him into this guarded island—an emotionally autonomous man focused on work.

But his guilt was penance. Kitty’s was undeserved.

‘For what?’

She hesitated.

‘For what?’ he asked again. ‘For carrying on? For having a future?’

She shook her head. ‘I wish it was that. That’s what I should be feeling—and I did at first. I want to feel it now, but all I can think about is you. And what happened with you.’

His body tensed as he braced against the memory of that moment. The spray from the waterfall was warm, but not as warm as the heat licking his stomach—a heat that had nothing to do with his memories and everything to do with the woman holding his hand.

‘You shouldn’t feel guilty about that.’

He was close enough to see the scattering of freckles along her cheekbones and the pulse working at the base of her throat. His body tightened with need.

‘I don’t. I feel guilty for wanting it to happen again.’ Her free hand bunched the fabric of her dress. ‘I don’t know why I feel like this...’ she whispered.

His body stilled, mirroring the tension in hers. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not,’ he said carefully.

She bit her lip. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything to happen—and then, when it did, I thought it was because I was here and because it’s been so long since there was anyone...so long since I even wanted anyone. Only it wasn’t that. It isn’t—’

His breathing stilled. In her villa, he’d wanted her in the moment. He could still remember the intensity of his desire and, more erotically, of hers—the swell of blood, the heat, the way her body had fitted against his.

Now, though, in the face of her honesty, he could admit that it hadn’t been enough. That even as he’d turned and walked away he had been craving more, and it was a need that wasn’t diminishing.

Need.

The word made his heart beat faster. But why? He wasn’t talking about emotional entanglement and neither was she. He was talking about lust. Sex. Desire. An elemental, physical yearning like hunger or thirst.

He shifted just a fraction, feeling the slight swell of her stomach. But this baby—their baby—was a connection that went beyond mere lust. They were bound by DNA now, and that was bigger than both of them, so he didn’t have to fight this—just accept it.

She breathed out unevenly and, heart pounding, he stared into her eyes, mesmerised by the longing he saw there...a longing he knew was mirrored in his own green gaze.

He felt a spinning sensation, almost as though he was drunk. In a way he was...drunk on the realisation that he was just a man, and she was just a woman, and they were equal. Equal in their need and their want. And by giving in to that want he would let go of the mistake he’d made and the fear that he’d let control his life for so long. For too long.

‘I want you,’ he said softly. ‘And I haven’t stopped wanting you since I walked out of your front door all those weeks ago. It’s not wrong or right—it just is.’ He touched her face, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip, exulting in the feel of her skin, the heat of her breath. ‘I can’t fight this any more. I don’t want to fight it.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to fight it e