Consequences Of A Hot Havana Night

It had been a long time since a member of the opposite sex had even registered on her radar, but this man resonated.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the underside of the bike’s wheel, still spinning slowly, and she was grateful for the reminder of what had so nearly happened and how she should react, for otherwise her brain might not have remembered what passed for acceptable behaviour.

‘Are you okay?’

He lifted his gaze and for a moment she forgot to breathe as dark green eyes the same colour as the pine trees behind her stared at her in confusion. And then she realised she was speaking in English.

She blinked. ‘Sorry, I mean...se hecho daño?’

He shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed on her face, and she saw that his expression had shifted from confusion to something like irritation. Instantly the sick panic she’d felt at watching the bike’s wheels slide from under him was replaced by a bubbling rush of anger.

‘Cómo—? I mean, puede—? Oh, what’s the word?’ She broke off in frustration. She was too angry to think straight in her own language, let alone in Spanish.

‘That would depend, I suppose, on what it is you’re trying to say.’

Her stomach clenched. He was speaking English—fluent, almost accentless English.

But clinging onto her outrage, she pushed past her astonishment. ‘How could you be so reckless? You could have been hurt. Or worse,’ she said accusingly.

‘Unlikely. I wasn’t going that fast. Besides...’ He paused and then almost casually hoisted up the right leg of his trousers and showed her a thin, knotted scar running up from his ankle. ‘I’ve done far worse.’

She gaped at him in silence, too stunned to respond and dazzled not just by the effortless way he switched between languages but by his casual lack of concern for his own safety. A sliver of anger she didn’t really understand twisted inside her as she watched him lean over the bike and haul it upright, nudging out the kickstand with his foot.

‘How about you?’

He still hadn’t turned to face her, but as he glanced over a jolt like a pulse of electricity passed between them as his eyes locked onto hers, his green gaze so intent she felt flushed and dizzy.

‘Are you okay?’

She stared at him blankly. He sounded businesslike rather than concerned, but she barely registered his words. She was too distracted by his face. Caught in the sunlight, it was beautiful. The straight nose and jaw were outlined in gold, his skin clear and bright like a just lit flame.

Like a just lit flame?

She felt herself tremble as the words echoed inside her head. Thankfully she’d only thought them and not actually said them out loud, but what was she thinking?

Easy question.

Wrong answer.

She was thinking about his mouth and how it would feel pressed against hers.

She frowned, flustered by her unexpected and unwelcome reaction to a stranger—a stranger who had scant regard both for himself and the safety of others. A stranger who couldn’t even be bothered to turn and face her.

Her heart began to beat faster, and she had a sudden impulse to turn and dart back beneath the trees. Only there was something in her that wanted to know what would happen if she stayed.

‘I’m fine. Although I’m surprised you’re bothering to ask.’

She spoke quickly, her words tumbling over themselves, for she was not by nature a confrontational person—a character trait that had only been reinforced by months of sitting in hospital waiting rooms and dealing with a conveyor belt of compassionate but phlegmatic specialists and consultants.

But something about this man...something in his manner...sparked against her like a match striking tinder.

He tipped his head back, his lips parting slightly as though internally questioning what he’d just heard.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

He spoke softly, but there was an edge to his voice that made the hairs stand up on her arms. But remembering how the wild horses had scattered at his approach, her irritation was rekindled and she felt the last of her panic disappear in the face of his level gaze.

‘It means that you almost ran into me.’

His eyes flashed, the whites glinting like teeth, but his gaze stayed locked on her face. ‘Yes, because you stepped out in front of me. I only came off the bike because I had to swerve to avoid hitting you.’

Her cheeks coloured and she hesitated. It was true, she had stepped out into the road... But, glancing back at him, she gritted her teeth. He wasn’t even wearing a helmet. How could he be so arrogant, so blasé?

Suddenly her whole body was shaking. She had a sharp, vivid memory of Jimmy, sitting on the sofa in his pyjamas, his face grey with exhaustion, and her heart began to pound with anger. Jimmy had lived his life so carefully, and yet here was this man—this arrogant, reckless man—taking stupid risks, taunting fate, challenging his own mortality.

‘Well, you wouldn’t have had to swerve if you hadn’t been going so fast,’ she said hotly, gesturing towards his scarred leg. ‘Which is clearly something you make a habit of doing.’

‘Like I said, I wasn’t going fast. This is a brand-new bike.’ He gave her a disparaging glance. ‘I only picked it up today, so I’m still breaking it in.’ Eyes narrowing, he shook his head dismissively. ‘I’m guessing you’ve never owned a motorbike.’

No, she had never even ridden a motorbike. They were noisy and dangerous: today was proof of that. And yet she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like riding a bike with him. She could picture it perfectly—knew exactly how it would feel to lean into that broad back, to feel the bands of muscle tense against her as he shifted gear or leaned into a turn.

Her hands felt shaky, and suddenly it was difficult to breathe. Glancing over at his bike, and trying desperately to hang on to her indignation, she ignored the prickling heat rising over her collarbone. Just because it was new, it didn’t mean he shouldn’t pay attention to other road-users.

‘No I haven’t,’ she agreed, her hands moving of their own accord to her hips, her brow creasing. ‘But it wouldn’t matter if I had. It still wouldn’t change the fact that you should watch where you’re going. This isn’t a racetrack, you know.’

She frowned, her brain backtracking. How had he got into the estate anyway? The gates required a code. Maybe he’d wanted to show off his stupid bike to one of the staff, or perhaps he was picking someone up—either way it wasn’t something she wanted to get involved in.

She glared at him. ‘And you should be wearing a helmet.’

‘Yes, I should,’ he said softly, his green gaze resting on her face.

Something in his simple, uncompromising answer made her blood start to hum. She held her breath.

In the distance she could see the sea. So far she hadn’t found anywhere on the estate where it wasn’t possible to catch a glimpse of the unruffled turquoise water, and usually her eye sought it out. But today it was him, this man, who drew her gaze. Only why did he make her feel that way?

The situation—lone female on a deserted road with a strange man—should be making her feel uneasy, but she wasn’t scared at all. Or not scared by him anyway, she thought, her cheeks suddenly hot as her eyes flitted hastily over the enticing curve of his mouth. The only threat was coming from her own imagination.

She felt another twitch of panic.

Her body was aching with a tension she didn’t understand, and her hair, already hot and heavy in the early evening sun, felt as though it was crushing her skull, so that it was an effort to think straight.

Crossing her arms in front of her body, she forced herself to meet his eyes, and suddenly she was shaking again—only not with anger this time. There was something so intense in his gaze, so intimate...

Clearing her throat, she said quickly, ‘Look, I don’t have time for this. I need to get home.’ And away from this intense man and the effect he had on her. Only... She glanced down the deserted road. ‘But I suppose I can help you move your bike.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

He stared at her calmly, and his calmness, his confidence, pulled her in so that her heart was slamming against her chest.

Only that was ridiculous—it was all ridiculous. Him and the effect he was having on her.

Wanting, needing, to escape the unsettling pull of tension between them, she took a step backwards, tightening her arms to contain the beat of heat pulsing in her chest.

‘Fine. Suit yourself,’ she said, sharpening her voice deliberately, pursing her lips in a disapproval she wanted to feel, but didn’t. ‘I get the feeling that’s what you’re best at anyway.’

‘Excuse me?’

Now he turned, his eyes narrowing, and she felt a rush of satisfaction at having finally got under his skin.

‘You heard me...’ she began, but her words died in her throat, like an actor who had forgotten her lines, and breathing in sharply, her eyes dropped to the brilliant and distinctive red stain blooming on his shirtsleeve like a poppy opening to the sun.

Blood.

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU’RE BLEEDING!’

César Zayas y Diago gazed at the woman standing in front of him, frustration momentarily blotting out the pain in his arm. He didn’t regret the injury. He never did. No matter how intense, physical pain was straightforward and short-lived. It didn’t make you question who you were.

‘You’re bleeding,’ she said again.

She was English, not American—he recognised the accent—and a tourist, judging by her clothes. Probably she’d been sold a boat trip and then just dumped on the beach and left to find her own way home.

He would have to speak to his security team, but right now he needed to focus on the matter in hand—and most especially this titian-haired trespasser.

As his gaze fixed on her face his breath caught in his throat. No wonder he’d gone head over heels. She was astonishingly beautiful.

The first few seconds after coming off the bike he’d been too busy picking himself up to notice, his body distracted and tensed against any incoming pain. But now that he had time to look at her he was finding it hard not to stare.

She was slim, maybe too slim—certainly for his taste—but there were curves too beneath her clothes, and he could practically feel the heat coming off the cloud of flame-coloured hair that reached her elbows. But it was the contradiction between that accusatory, grey gaze and the sensual promise of that fascinating, perfect pink mouth that was making his head spin.

His shoulders tensed. Was it deliberate?

Somehow it seemed unlikely. His eyes flickered assessingly over her face. She looked nervous, less sure of herself than when she’d been berating him—or trying to berate him—in beginner’s Spanish.

But then she’d just had a shock.

Glancing down at his right arm, he pressed his fingers against the damp fabric, grimacing.

This was supposed to have been a rare, unscheduled moment of downtime. His day had started in Florida. He’d woken early for a five-thirty session with his trainer and moved seamlessly into a four-hour meeting with his lawyers over some cheap import that was using almost identical bottle branding to Dos Rios. The email about the bike had come into his inbox just as the lawyers were leaving, and on impulse, he’d decided to take a diversion to Havana.

He still wasn’t sure why he’d even ordered the bike in the first place. Coming to Cuba required both an effort of will and a secrecy he loathed but couldn’t avoid—his parents got so upset when he returned home. But maybe, subconsciously, he’d just wanted to make a point to himself that he could.

Besides, a motorbike was an easy way to top up his need for adrenalin, a need that he recognised, and embraced in those hours not spent pursuing global domination of the rum market.

And it had felt good—not just the spontaneity of kicking free of his schedule, but the actual act of bonding with the bike. His body and mind had been immersed in the angles of the road and the rush of the wind—and then suddenly she was there.

Like all accidents, it had happened too quickly for him to have any real sense of anything beyond the bike slip-sliding away from him, the earth tilting on its axis, a glare of sunlight and a blur of trees, and then the noise of metal hitting stone, followed by silence.

Even before he’d looked down and seen the blood he’d known he’d hurt himself, but he’d had enough injuries to be able to differentiate between those requiring a Band-Aid and those that needed a trip to A&E. And anyway, after the first shock had worn off he’d been more worried about her.

She’d been so agitated and upset that he had deliberately angled his body away from hers so that she wouldn’t see the blood—only then she’d fronted up to him, like a skinny little ginger cat, and he’d forgotten all about his arm.

Nothing had mattered except wiping that dismissive uppity sneer from her mouth.

Preferably with his mouth.

He felt his pulse jerk forward.

Careful, he warned himself. She might be beautiful, but he didn’t need another lesson in the pitfalls of acting on impulse—and by that he didn’t mean taking a bike for an unplanned road test.

Her eyes were wide with panic. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘It’s fine.’ He held up his hands placatingly, and then regretted it as a drop of blood splashed onto the pale dirt.

‘How can you say that when you’re dripping blood everywhere?’

She was looking at him as though she’d seen a ghost. For a moment he thought about telling her about the other times he’d come off a bike, but it might backfire and make her panic more. And anyway, it was private. All of it was private. His pursuit of precision, the transcendence of the everyday and that heightened awareness that came with being at one with the machine. How could he explain what it felt like to lose all sense of himself—his past, his position as CEO, all of it—in the heat and speed of the ride? Why would he want to explain that to her?

He glanced past her back down the empty road. Why was she even here? On her own. She was just a tourist and now she was in the middle of a drama. No wonder she looked out of her depth.

It made him feel both irritated and protective. And then he felt angry with himself for feeling anything at all. Feelings—his in particular—were dangerously unreliable. He had the scars to prove it. And he wasn’t talking about the ones on his body.

‘Look, nothing’s broken. It’s just a graze.’

‘Even if it is you should still get it checked out. It’s not worth taking the risk.’

His jaw tightened. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her exactly who he was, and that this was his estate and she was trespassing, and therefore the risk was all hers. But that would only confuse matters further.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a professional opinion?’

She glared at him, her chin jutting upwards. ‘I don’t have a car, but I could call an ambulance.’

An ambulance?

Frowning, he shook his head, contemplating all the time-consuming and unnecessary complications of such a step. ‘Absolutely not. It can wait until I get home.’

Forehead creasing, she took a step forward. ‘I don’t think you should wait. What happens if you feel dizzy, or the bleeding won’t stop?’

She hesitated, and he could see the conflict in her eyes—doubt at what she was about to suggest fighting with a determination to do the right thing. A long time ago he too had been just as transparent and easy to read. But he’d learnt the hard and humiliating way to keep his feelings hidden, or better still to avoid them altogether.

Her grey eyes rested on his face. ‘Look, we can walk the bike back to my villa. It’s not far from here. I have a first aid kit and I know how to clean a wound. At least let me take a look before you do anything else.’

So she lived nearby. He wondered where she was staying. From memory, he thought there were a couple of villas beyond the woods, but it seemed an odd place to choose as a holiday home. Most of Havana’s visitors liked to be nearer the city centre and all the regular tourist attractions. But there was something about this woman that made him think that perhaps she wasn’t here for the Malecón, the Gran Teatro or the Plaza Vieja.

So why was she here?

The answer shouldn’t matter, but for some reason it did. Before he had a chance to wonder why, he heard himself say, ‘Okay. You can take a look at it. But no ambulance.’

The walk to her villa took less than ten minutes.

Inside, she gestured towards a comfy-looking sofa. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you a glass of water.’

Sitting down, he felt a sense of déjà-vu. It was exactly the kind of traditional Cuban cabaña that his grandparents had grown up in, only theirs had been home to at least ten people. Not that they’d seemed to mind. For them—for his own parents too—family was everything.

He shifted in his seat, the ache in his chest suddenly sharper than the ache in his arm. He knew that his mother and father were proud of how he had built up the business, and grateful for the comfort and security he had given them, but what they really wanted—what would make them willingly give up their luxurious lifestyle in a heartbeat—was a grandchild they could spoil. Not that they said so, or at least his mother didn’t, but he felt their hope every time he mentioned a woman’s name in passing.

His stomach twisted. Children required parents, and typically that meant two people who loved one another, only that just wasn’t going to happen for him. Maybe the right woman was out there somewhere, logically, statistically, he knew she must be. But no amount of logic could counteract the fact that he didn’t trust himself to choose her, not after what had happened with Celia.

‘Here.’

She was back. Handing him a glass, she sat down beside him with a bowl of water, a towel and a large plastic box. When she’d told him she had a first aid kit he’d assumed she meant something she’d picked up at the airport. This, though, looked on a par with the kits at the distillery.

‘You’re very well prepared,’ he said softly.

He felt her tense.

‘It’s just the basics.’ She glanced up at him accusingly. ‘You should probably have a kit on your bike.’

In fact he did have one, and he was on the point of telling her that, but he was suddenly too distracted by the way her beautiful red-gold eyebrows were arching in concentration as she rummaged through the box.

Pulling out a packet, she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, then dropping to the shining patch of crimson on his upper arm. ‘I need to see if it’s stopped bleeding.’

‘Okay.’ He nodded, but he was distracted by a glimpse of her feet. She had taken off her shoes, and there was something strangely arousing about her bare toes.

Pulling his gaze away, he glanced back up at her face.

A trace of pink coloured her cheeks. ‘So I need you to take your shirt off,’ she said huskily.

* * *

Kitty swallowed.

I need you to take your shirt off.

As her words reverberated inside her head and around the room her eyes darted towards the triangle of light gold skin at his throat. If only she’d just ignored his objections and called an ambulance. Outside, on the road, with his shirt turning red, she hadn’t thought about anything but the fact that he needed help. She certainly hadn’t envisaged him taking his clothes off. But how else was she going to be able to deal with his injury?

She cleared her throat. ‘Or I could cut the sleeve off?’ she offered.

He didn’t reply. He just stared at her. And suddenly she forgot all about his shirt, and even his injury, for nobody had ever looked at her so intently. It was as though he was trying to see inside her, to read her thoughts. Her muscles tightened against a sudden flood of heat. No one had ever looked at her with such focus, not even her husband. It was intimate, exhilarating, both an intrusion and a caress—

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll take it off,’ he said.

She watched as he started trying to undo the buttons, but they were sticky with blood, and before she knew what she was doing she leaned forward, batting his hands away.

‘Here. Let me.’

Her heart began to beat faster as her fingers pulled at the buttons. She could feel the heat of him beneath his shirt and, try as she might, she couldn’t stop her eyes from fixing on his sleek bronze skin as the fabric parted.

Her fingers twitched against the buckle of his belt and, avoiding his gaze, she lifted her hands and inched backwards. ‘I’ll let you take it from here,’ she said.

He shrugged his left shoulder free and then peeled the shirt tentatively away from his injured arm.

For a moment she stared at him in silence, her heart pulsing in her throat. It had been such a long time since she had looked at a man’s body. Or at least a body that looked like his.

With broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist his body was muscular, but not overly so, with just the finest trail of dark hair splitting the lean definition of his chest and stomach. His skin was smooth and golden, but it wasn’t his skin that drew her gaze, but the two scars running almost parallel up his abdomen.

Clearly he hadn’t been joking when he’d said he’d had far worse injuries. But why, having been so badly hurt, would anyone take more risks?

It wasn’t a question she could ask a stranger—not even one sitting bare-chested on her sofa.

‘What do you think?’

Lost in thought, she was caught unawares by his question and gazed up at him dazedly.

‘What do I think?’ she repeated his question slowly. Her brain seemed to have stopped working.

‘About my arm.’

Dragging her eyes up to the curve of his bicep, she breathed out unsteadily. He had been right. The skin was scuffed, and crusted with grit from the road, but it was just a graze.

‘I think it will be fine, but it’ll be easier to say once I’ve cleaned it.’ She gave him a small, tight smile. ‘Tell me if I hurt you.’

There was quite a lot of blood, but she wasn’t squeamish, not any more...not after everything she’d seen and had to do for Jimmy. And anyway it was easier not to think about what so nearly might have happened if there was something practical to do.

‘I will.’

His eyes met hers and she felt his gaze flow over her skin, cool and dark and unfathomable like a woodland pool. Her stomach knotted fiercely. Outside, in the aftermath of the accident, there had been so much going on. Now, though, his aura was undiluted—a mix of sandalwood and sexual charisma that made a flicker of unfamiliar heat rise up inside her.

Forcing herself to ignore his body, she focused on trying to be as gentle as possible as she washed away the blood, carefully easing loose the tiny pieces of grit that were embedded in the graze. There was just one last bit now...

She could feel his pulse vibrating steadily beneath his skin, and yet one tiny variable on that road might have stopped it beating for ever. The thought made her shake inside with loss and anger—anger at the unfairness of life, and with this man who wore his beauty and certainty like a shield.

Biting her lip, she leaned in closer, resting her hand against his thigh to help steady herself.

‘Sorry.’ She’d heard him breathe in and, glancing up, saw he was gritting his teeth. ‘Did I hurt you?’

She felt his leg muscle tighten, and quickly she lifted her hand.

‘Not exactly,’ he said, staring straight ahead. ‘Have you finished?’

‘Almost.’ She patted his skin dry with the towel. ‘I don’t think it will bleed any more, but I’ll put this dressing on, then you won’t have to think about it.’

Glancing down, she frowned. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’ Picking up his hand, she washed the smudges of dried blood from his fingers. ‘There.’