“You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”
I curl my fingers into a ball to keep from giving in to temptation, to resist reaching out and laying my palm against his cheek.
“I suspect plenty of people make you feel special.”
There’s that smile again. “That they do,” he acknowledges.
I shift until we stand shoulder to shoulder, gazing out at the moonlit sky.
He shoots me a sidelong look. “I imagine it’s true, then?”
“What’s true?”
“They say you ruled like a queen in Havana.”
“There are no queens in Havana. Only a tyrant who aims to be king.”
“I take it you aren’t a fan of the revolutionaries?”
“It depends on the revolutionaries to whom you refer. Some had their uses. Fidel and his ilk are little more than vultures feasting on the carrion that has become Cuba.” I walk forward, sidestepping him so the full skirt of my dress swishes against his elegant tuxedo pants. I feel him behind me, his breath on my nape, but I don’t look back. “President Batista needed to be eliminated. In that, they succeeded. Now if only we could rid ourselves of the victors.”
I turn, facing him.
His gaze has sharpened from an indolent gleam to something far more interesting. “And replace them with who, exactly?”
“A leader who cares about Cubans, about their future. Who is willing to remove the island from the Americans’ yoke.” I care little for the fact that he is an American; I am not one of them and have no desire to pretend to be. “A leader who will reduce sugar’s influence,” I add, my words a break from my family’s position. Despite the fortune it has brought us, it’s impossible to deny the destructive influence the industry has had on our island no matter how much our father attempts to do so. “One who will bring us true democracy and freedom.”
He’s silent, his gaze appraising once again, and I’m not sure if it’s a result of the wind, or his breath against my neck, but goose bumps rise over my skin.
“You’re a dangerous woman, Beatriz Perez.”
My lips curve. I tilt my head to the side, studying him, trying desperately to fight the faint prick of pleasure at the phrase “dangerous woman” and the fact that he knows my name.
“Dangerous for who?” I tease.
He doesn’t answer, but then again, he doesn’t have to.
Another smile. Another dent in his cheeks. “I’ll bet you left a trail of broken hearts behind you.”
I shrug, registering how his gaze is drawn to my bare shoulder.
“A proposal or four, perhaps.”
“Rum scions and sugar barons or wild-haired, bearded freedom fighters?”
“Let’s just say my tastes are varied. I kissed Che Guevara once.”
I can’t tell who is more surprised by the announcement. I don’t know why I said it, why I’m sharing a secret not even my family knows with a total stranger. To shock him, maybe; these Americans are so easy to scandalize. To warn him I am not some simpering debutante; I have done and seen things he cannot fathom. And also, perhaps, because there’s power in the lengths to which you will go in a misguided attempt to secure your father’s release from Guevara’s hellhole of a prison, La Cabaña. It makes for a good story even if I inwardly cringe at the young girl whose hubris made her think a kiss could save a life.
“Did you enjoy it?” Golden Boy’s expression is inscrutable, a clever and effective mask sliding into place. I can’t tell if he’s scandalized, or if he feels sorry for me; I far prefer society’s scorn to his pity.
“The kiss?”
He nods.
“I would have preferred to cut his throat.”
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch at my bloodthirsty response.
“Then why did you do it?”
I surprise myself—and perhaps him—by opting for truth rather than prevarication.
“Because I was tired of things happening to me, and I wanted to make things happen for myself. Because I was trying to save someone’s life.”
“And did you?”
The taste of defeat fills my mouth with ash.
“That time, I did.”
The wave of power brings another emotion with it, the memory of the life I couldn’t save, of a car screeching to a stop in front of the enormous gates of our home, the door opening, my twin brother’s still-warm dead body tumbling to the ground, his blood staining the steps we once played on when we were children, his head cradled in my lap while I sobbed.
“Is it as bad as everyone says?” His tone is gentled to something I can hardly bear.
“Worse.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“No, you can’t. You have no idea how fortunate you are to be born in this time, in this place. Without freedom, you have nothing.”
“And what would you tell a man with only a few minutes of freedom left?”
“To run,” I reply, my tone wry.
A ghost of a smile crosses his face, but it’s obvious he isn’t buying what I’m selling, and I like him better for it, for seeing past the facade.
“To savor the last few minutes he has,” I answer instead.
I want to ask his name, but pride holds me back—pride and fear.
Such luxuries have no place in my life at the moment.
I blink, only to be greeted by an outstretched palm, waiting for mine to join it.
“Dance with me.”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. I cock my head to the side, studying him, pretending my heart isn’t thundering in my chest, that my hand isn’t itching to take his.
“Now why does that feel more like a challenge than an invitation?”
The music is a faint hum in the background of the evening, the notes drifting out onto the empty balcony.
“Will you dance with me, Beatriz Perez, kisser-of-revolutionaries and thief-of-hearts?”
He’s too smooth by half, and I like him far too much for it.
I shake my head, a smile playing at my lips. “I didn’t say anything about stealing hearts.”
He counters my smile with a spectacular one of his own, the full wattage hitting me. “No, I did.”
Do I really even stand a chance?
He steps forward, obliterating the space between us once more, his cologne filling my nostrils, my eyes level with the snowy white front of his shirt. His hand comes to rest on my waist, the heat from his palm warming me through the thin fabric of my dress. He takes my hand with his free one, our fingers entwined.