‘I’m Cuban—we practically invented dancing. So, yes, I can dance.’
His smile beckoned to her across the table, warm, teasing, complicit. She could feel the
rise and fall of her breath, hear the sound of her heartbeat inside her head, and she had that sense of standing on the wing of a plane, of freedom and anticipation, as his eyes looked directly into hers.
‘Prove it,’ she said softly.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY REACHED THE nightclub just before one. On the tenth floor of the Hotel Bello, the members-only Club el Moré was clearly the place to go for Havana’s elite.
‘You won’t find any tourists here,’ César said as a waiter guided them to a table.
She smiled. ‘Am I not a tourist?’
He shook his head. ‘You live here. That makes you an honorary habanera.’
A pulse sidestepped across her skin as she sat down, and she felt inexplicably happy at his choice of words. ‘So is that why you come here? No tourists?’
His mouth turned up at the corners. ‘Yes.’
His blunt answer made her burst out laughing. ‘Really?’
He shook his head in time with the smile curving his mouth. ‘No, not really. I mean, it can feel a little like you’re living in a theme park—with all the cars and cigars—but really I come here because they have the best live music and cocktails in the city.’
As though reading his lips, a waiter appeared at his elbow and expertly slid two exquisite coupe glasses decorated with silver polka dots onto the table. He tapped her glass of orange juice, and then took a sip of his daiquiri.
‘I don’t normally drink these—’ he said.
‘Too touristy?’ She finished his sentence.
His eyes gleamed. ‘A little.’
‘So what do you drink?’
‘I prefer a highball of eight-year-old Dos Rios with a couple of drops of water to open it up and a little ice to push back the sweetness.’ Twisting his glass around, he gazed at it assessingly. ‘But tonight a daiquiri feels right—after all, one of your countrymen supposedly had a hand in its creation.’
She shook her head. Some people claimed that in an attempt to ward off scurvy Sir Francis Drake had added limes to the crew’s ration of rum, but there were plenty of others who argued that the legendary cocktail had been named after a beach just off Santiago called Daiquiri.
‘Anyway, salud por que la belleza sobra,’ César said, making the usual Cuban toast. Lowering his glass, he pushed it across the table. ‘Here, try it.’
He was lounging in his seat, his arm resting against the armrest, but despite his languid manner she sensed that he was watching her, waiting for her response.
Picking up his glass, Kitty took a sip. Her tastebuds exploded. It was divine.
I could get used to this, she thought, her distiller’s brain sifting through the classic flavours of lime juice, sugar syrup, and of course rum. And she wasn’t just talking about the alcohol, she realised a little guiltily after the first sip.
Heart pounding, she gazed slowly round the room. Both the atmosphere and the decor were completely different from the shoulder-bumping, sweaty tangle at Bar Mango.
Here, everything seemed to gleam and glitter—particularly the men and woman entwined on the velvet banquettes. The women were uniformly gorgeous and sleek. Bare-shouldered and long-limbed, their glossy lips and gleaming white teeth were almost brighter than their jewels. Sitting beside them, beneath a haze of blue-grey cigar smoke, the men looked darkly handsome in their flawless suits.
She glanced over to the dance floor. It was already crowded, and she wondered if and when he was going to respond to her challenge. Thanks to some classes at her local village hall she knew how to salsa, but somehow she didn’t think that dancing with Lizzie was going to be much preparation for partnering César.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and with an effort she diverted her thoughts back to the drink she was holding. ‘It’s delicious.’
‘It should be. They make it to their own unique recipe.’
She read the challenge in his eyes and tasted it again, trying to pin down the flavour. ‘There’s grapefruit...’