* * *
‘How do you like your food?’
Putting down her fork, Kitty smiled. ‘It’s excellent. I really love these—what are they called in Spanish again?’ She gestured towards her plate.
‘Boniatos,’ César said softly.
She repeated it carefully, ignoring the leap in her stomach as his green eyes rested on her face. ‘They’re delicious. Everything is amazing.’
‘I hope I didn’t drag you away from your evening.’
She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. I was beginning to worry that I might have to start complaining about the music being too loud—so thank you for saving me.’
She pulled herself up short. That wasn’t the image she wanted to project.
‘Not that I needed saving,’ she added quickly. ‘I’m not some damsel in distress.’
He stared at her impassively. ‘I should be the one thanking you
. You saved me from having to dine alone.’
Her heart was pounding. She still couldn’t quite get her head around how the evening had unfolded. She’d met the other girls, as arranged, and walking with them through the streets she’d been struck by how different the city seemed at night. The old-school glamour was still there, but there was also something rawer—a hum of energy and excitement. Everywhere people were talking, flirting and kissing in time to the salsa spilling out of every window.
It had all looked so natural, so easy and uncomplicated, and as they’d gone into the bar she’d wondered how it would feel if she could let her body follow its desires.
Her mouth felt dry. Which, roughly translated, meant César Zayas.
And then, just like that, she’d turned around and found him standing behind her, his green eyes capturing the light like polished emeralds.
Had she imagined such a moment? Truthfully, yes. But the shock had still been electric, her response so visceral in its intensity that she’d actually forgotten to breathe.
And that was how she’d first met this man whose warm lips and urgent hands had filled her head for weeks. Breathless, self-conscious, her eyes wide with shock.
The way she’d behaved that evening had been so out of character, and the likelihood of seeing him again so remote, she’d convinced herself that meeting him again would be a little awkward but manageable. But the moment she’d turned around she’d realised that she was nowhere near cool or sophisticated enough simply to brush off having sex with a stranger who had then turned out to be her boss.
It had been tempting simply to pretend to ignore what had happened, but she knew from past experience that it would be better to know the worst. Like whether César Zayas’s idea of a ‘clean slate’ meant removing all reminders of what happened that evening—including her.
But of course he had been completely unfazed, and it had been his response that had prompted her invitation, to prove to herself as much as to him that the line they’d crossed seven weeks ago had been a one-off.
Clandestina, the restaurant he’d chosen, was like nowhere she’d ever been. There was no sign outside, for a start, just a doorman in a dark suit who had nodded silently, stepping back to let them pass into the Art Deco apartment block. But as they’d walked out onto the rooftop terrace she’d forgotten to breathe.
She’d been told that Cuban restaurants tended towards the rustic, but this was no homely paladar. It was wall-to-wall luxury. Only there weren’t any walls—just a polished concrete floor, hot pink velvet-covered chairs and uninterrupted views of the city and the sea beneath a black, silk-lined awning.
She had felt almost dizzy. It was a million miles away from the shabby local pub where she and Jimmy had used to get lunch sometimes. It was pure indulgence—a sensory and sensual overload that bordered on the decadent.
She wondered if that was why he’d chosen it, or whether it was because he was friends with the owners, two brothers called Héctor and Frank. Either way, he clearly felt at home as he was on first-name terms with most of the waiters, and ordered without so much as glancing at the handwritten menu.
Or perhaps it was just the food, she thought, her stomach rumbling as the waiters brought out more plates of the most amazing pulled pork, roast chicken and frituras de malanga.
‘So where do you see yourself professionally in the next five years? Presumably there’s nothing left for you career-wise in England.’
She blinked. She had been a little nervous about the potential for lulls in their conversation, but it had been surprisingly easy and fast-flowing. They had talked mostly about work. And she’d been happy to discuss distilling and sugar cane shortages. But this aspect, her career, was not somewhere she was prepared to go. To talk about the future would risk revealing too much about her past...about Jimmy and their life together.
‘I haven’t thought about it.’
He frowned. ‘Then you should.’
His directness knocked her off balance.