It was a short drive to the Montañez estate. As they walked into the garden, he turned and caught her eye and she nearly burst out laughing, because it was exactly how he’d described it—right down to the teenagers eyeballing one another and the hog roast cooking slowly in the afternoon sun.
As predicted, César did get cornered and cross-examined, but even though she couldn’t follow every word of the conversation it was clear that he was doted on by the abuelas.
Lunch was served in the shade of the house. The centrepiece of the meal was the pork, accompanied by chicharrones—bite-size pieces of crackling which tasted incredible with the citrusy mojo sauce—but there were also huge platters of avocado and pineapple salad, and of course congri, the famous rice and beans dish that was both delicious and comforting.
Leaning back against the extra cushion that her hostess, Julia, had insisted that she have, Kitty gazed down the table, her eyes drawn to where César had been dragged by the other men to smoke cigars.
It was the first time he had left her side all afternoon. When they’d arrived he’d led her between the clumps of guests, introducing her in both Spanish and English, acting as a translator when necessary, and all the time his arm had rested lightly against her back.
She knew, of course, that he was just being polite—attentive in the same way as when he’d gone and found her a non-alcoholic drink—but even so she had felt herself responding, wanting to draw closer, to lean into him.
Right now he was lounging in his chair, talking, his green eyes dark beneath the shaded canopy, surrounded by men smoking, and sipping ron. She watched as he said something and a burst of laughter floated towards her, momentarily drowning out the more sedate sound of the dominos clicking against the tabletop.
He held up his hand, tilting the rum so that the men watching him all tipped their heads to one side, and she found herself smiling. With his gaze fixed on the glass in his hand, and his arm resting casually against the back of the chair, he looked less like a CEO and more like his Roman namesake: Caesar addressing his senators.
Behind them on the lawn some of the children were playing chase, but two of them—a girl and a younger boy, brother and sister maybe—stood side by side eating coquitos, their eyes wide as the others zig-zagged past them.
Kitty watched as the boy held up his caramel-covered hand, frowning.
The girl shook her head. ‘Puaj! No me toques!’ Turning she tugged the jacket of the man nearest to César—Pablo’s nephew, Jorge. ‘Papi, Javi está todo pegajoso!’
Picking up a napkin, the man reached down—but his son was too quick and, laughing, grabbed César’s leg and hauled himself onto his lap, burying his face against his shirt.
Oh, no. Kitty held her breath. She could see the sticky smears even from where she was sitting. But, waving away Jorge’s apologies, César grinned, and then, gently grabbing the little boy’s hands, he held them out to be wiped clean.
Her chest was aching. He was so sweet. His patience, his gentleness, reminded her of Jimmy—and yet for the first time ever she couldn’t picture Jimmy in her head. His familiar features seemed to have faded, no longer sharp but blurred and growing fainter.
Around her, the noise of the party faded too, drowned out by the hammering of her heart. She stared at César, mesmerised. This was what he would be like with his own child. The thought made her whole body swell with happiness, so that she couldn’t hold in her smile. Only there was a lump in her throat too. For, even though she knew there was no point in thinking it, it was impossible not to imagine that if they were a real couple then together they would be a family—the kind of family that she’d dreamed about for so long.
As though feeling her gaze, César glanced up, his eyes seeking hers. It was the kind of private look that only couples shared—a mix of tenderness and understanding that made her feel dizzy. Except they weren’t a real couple. Just two people taking one step at a time...
She managed to keep smiling as César stood up and strolled over to where she sat, concern in his eyes. ‘Is everything okay? You look a little pale.’
She nodded, still smiling. ‘I’m always pale.’
He sat beside her, his green gaze resting on her face, and then, reaching out, he rested his hand lightly on her stomach. ‘If it’s a girl I want her to have your hair.’
Ignoring the way her pulse skipped forward, she cleared her throat. ‘And if it’s a boy I’ll let you clean him up when he’s been eating coquitos.’
Grinning, he leaned forward and plucked a beautiful white flower from the arrangement on the table. ‘Here.’ Gently he slotted it into her hair. ‘My mariposa.’
She felt her heart bump against her ribs. ‘I can’t be your mariposa. It’s the Cuban national flower and I’m a foreigner.’
His eyes collided with hers. ‘Actually, it’s a foreigner too. It comes from India. In the Revolution, Cuban women who helped the rebels used to wear them in their hair.’
‘Well, I’m helping you with your rums, so does that make you a rebel?’ she asked teasingly.
‘Not today.’ He grimaced. ‘Today I need Julia to report back to my mum that I was the perfect gentleman. Speaking of which—would you like to dance?’ He glanced down at his shirt. ‘Or am I too sticky?’
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. ‘You’re not sticky, you’re sweet,’ she said.
And, standing up, she let him lead her beneath the huge shaded gazebo to where couples were circling to salsa music. Curving his hand around her waist, he pulled her close.
‘Everyone’s looking at us,’ she whispered.
‘Not us.’ He gazed down at her, his green eyes dark and intent. ‘They know me far too well to find me in any way interesting. It’s you they’re looking at.’
She felt her pulse slow. If only she could freeze time, capture this moment. Heart pounding, she stared at him, wanting desperately to memorise every detail of his face.