And suddenly, with a dawn-breaking kind of clarity, she knew what she was going to do.
She was going to go out in Havana. She was going to drink mojitos and dance and follow the pulsing salsa rhythm right to the heart of Cuba.
* * *
‘I’m sorry, Señor Zayas, but the road ahead is closed so I’m going to have to go through the centre.’
Looking up from his laptop, César gazed out of the window of his SUV to where a queue of cars were jostling for position, accompanied by an escalating cacophony of horns and shouts.
He frowned at his driver. ‘Is it an accident?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. It looks like roadworks.’
‘It’s fine, Rodolfo,’ he said. ‘I can wait.’
His shoulders stiffened. If that was true, then why had he turned his entire schedule on its head and ordered Miguel, his pilot, to divert mid-flight to Havana instead of going to the Bahamas as planned?
He was in the process of buying a new catamaran, and had been on his way to Freeport to meet with the architects and the marine engineers when he’d changed his mind. Or that was what he’d told himself and his bemused air crew. The truth was that he’d pretty much been returning to Havana ever since he’d walked out of that villa on his estate seven weeks ago, his blood humming in his veins, his body reeling.
He felt his gut tighten.
Kitty Quested.
For the first few days after leaving Havana he’d resisted pulling her file, but finally he’d relented, assuming that if he answered the questions buzzing round his head the mystery would be solved. Instead, though, his questions had multiplied.
She was younger than he’d realised, and professionally inexperienced. How, then, had she created such an outstanding rum?
Creating such nuanced, complex fl
avours would have taken patience and persistence—qualities that were rare at that age. He certainly hadn’t had them when his father had sat him down and told him that it was time to step up and take over the running of Dos Rios.
He felt his chest tighten, remembering his reaction at the time. Shock and disbelief—and then panic. He hadn’t been ready, not nearly ready, to do what his father had asked of him. An indulged childhood had been no preparation for the responsibilities involved in running the family business. And after finishing his degree he’d wanted to travel, not work. To have fun, and to be free of his parents’ unconditional and sometimes stifling love.
He couldn’t blame them for wanting to be so involved in his life. They’d wished and waited for a baby so long, suffered so many disappointments. By the time he was born it had been too late for there to be any brother or sister and his fate had been sealed. He would always be unique, cherished and beloved.
He knew he was incredibly lucky to be so wanted, but his position as their only son and heir was complicated. For years he had prayed for a sibling. Not because he’d been lonely, nor even because he had known it would make his parents happy, but just so he wouldn’t have to be so exceptional.
His prayers had gone unanswered, but—incredibly—his parents had agreed to give him a year after graduating from his MBA. A year to make his way alone in the world and make his own mistakes. And that was exactly what he’d done.
And look how that turned out.
He had ended up hurting the ones who loved him the most. The only consolation in the whole sorry mess was that it had taught him a valuable life lesson: that trust was something to be earned, not given.
And yet, incomprehensibly, he had felt as though he could trust Kitty.
But then nothing made sense about that woman. From her sudden appearance on the deserted road to that tantalising passion she’d revealed in that darkening villa.
She was a mystery, an enigma, with a glorious riot of red hair, a pale, serious face and mesmerisingly expressive grey eyes that switched in a flash from concern to fury.
Was it any wonder that for weeks now she had been popping into his head without invitation but with maddening regularity?
Images of her beautiful naked body undulating against his, the last shreds of sunlight spilling across their damp, feverish skin, had hounded his days and haunted his dreams, so that for the first time since adolescence his body had been at the mercy of his hormones.
And so he’d come back to Havana.
For years now he’d rationed his visits—more so since he’d moved his parents to live in Palm Beach—and on arrival he instantly felt that familiar sense of conflict. Relief at being home fighting with regret that he could never truly be himself here. But that was the way it had to be. The open, easy-going young man who had left Cuba to go to college in the States had never returned. Instead, in his place was a man who lived a life of order and restraint.
He gritted his teeth. Most of the time anyway.