Consequences of a Hot Havana Night

He told himself that he was simply being pragmatic. Believing in love as a prerequisite for marriage was a nice idea—but if love and marriage went together like the proverbial horse and carriage why were there so many divorces?

But there was more to his reasoning than just cynicism. The truth was—and it killed him to admit it, even privately—that mostly it was fear. Fear of what would happen if he repeated the mistake he’d made with Celia and allowed himself to muddle lust, or in this case lust and duty, with love.

Kitty turned and gazed down at him, her eyes flaring as they connected with his bare upper body, so that he felt his groin harden.

Why think about any of that anyway? Right now, with access to her delectable body, he was not so much happy as willing to let her set the pace. Rather than pressurising her to change her mind, he was prepared to play a long-ish game—and that meant not just focusing on the present, but laying the foundations for the future and accepting that, for the moment at least, this arrangement was a jump-off point for the next step.

* * *

Tipping her head to one side, Kitty scooped up her mass of hair and raised her arms. It was mid-afternoon, the hottest time of the day, and she was sprawled on one of the loungers that were dotted invitingly around the veranda. She’d just detected the slightest of breezes and she let out a long, slow breath. The quiver of air felt blissfully cool against her neck.

Actually, thanks to César, she felt blissful all over.

She stretched out against the cushions, enjoying the ache in the limbs and the sated heaviness of her body. Oscar Wilde had been wrong. Giving in to temptation was not making César any less desirable. On the contrary, every kiss seemed only to intensify her hunger for him, and her pleasure—endless and exhilarating, mindless and insatiable—was nothing like it had ever been before.

She let go of her hair, feeling it cascade over her shoulders.

Nothing like it had been with Jimmy.

But how could she think that sex with César was better than with the man she’d loved and married and watched die?

Her heartbeat slowed, and she waited for the pang of guilt. Only none came. Was she then starting to realise that it was impossible to compare these two men? Or those two versions of herself?

She had never kissed Jimmy as they’d sat down for lunch and then forgotten all about the meal, abandoning the food on her plate in the heat of a different kind of abandonment.

But with Jimmy she had been so young, and in love for the first time. They had both been inexpert, nervous, but at the same time everything had been so familiar. There had never been that spark of hunger, nor any stomach-swooping rush of need because they—and everyone else—had always expected it to happen.

With César she was learning that there was a lot more to sex—and to herself. She was discovering a hot, passionate woman who was living in the moment and enjoying it.

From somewhere inside the house she heard César’s voice. He was on the phone and, judging by the mix of affection and exasperation in his voice, she was willing to bet that either he was speaking to his mother or his father.

Picking up her robe, she sat up and tugged it over her bikini. He’d talked about his family, but people were different when they talked to their family. Standing up, curious to catch a glimpse of this uncensored version of César, she walked quietly back into the house.

He was wearing his usual dark suit, talking in Spanish, and she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the flow of his words. It was such a romantic-sounding language.

Her chest tightened. Except that César’s responses were growing curter by the minute.

Abruptly he hung up and, not wanting to look like an eavesdropper, she said quickly, ‘Hi, I was just going to go upstairs and get changed—’

‘Okay.’

Crossing the room, he picked up a cup of coffee and drank it swiftly. She stared after him uncertainly. He seemed tense and upset, more so than she’d ever seen him. Except when she’d refused to marry him.

‘Who was that on the phone?’

He turned, his green eyes wary. ‘My father.’

‘Is everything okay?’

He frowned. ‘He’s fine. He’s just annoyed.’

His face didn’t change but his voice sounded clipped, distant—the voice of a CEO talking to an employee.

‘About what?’

He frowned, glancing away. ‘Nothing. It’s not important.’

‘So why are you upset?’