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Consequences Of A Hot Havana Night
Louise Fuller
A scorching encounter in the Cuban heat… Now, she’s carrying her boss’s baby! The wild vibrancy of Kitty’s new home in Havana must be infectious. Why else would the naturally cautious rum distiller have succumbed to the sudden desire to seize one night with a stranger? But if it’s shocking to learn that César is actually her powerful, elusive boss, it’s nothing compared to Kitty’s latest realisation… she’s pregnant!


A scorching encounter in the Cuban heat...
Now she’s carrying her boss’s baby!
The wild vibrancy of Kitty’s new home in Havana must be infectious. Why else would the naturally cautious rum distiller have succumbed to the sudden desire to seize one night with a stranger? But if it’s shocking to learn that César is actually her powerful, elusive boss, it’s nothing compared to Kitty’s latest bombshell—she’s pregnant!
Lose yourself in this sparkling pregnancy romance!
LOUISE FULLER was once a tomboy who hated pink and always wanted to be the Prince—not the Princess! Now she enjoys creating heroines who aren’t pretty push-overs but strong, believable women. Before writing for Mills & Boon she studied literature and philosophy at university, and then worked as a reporter on her local newspaper. She lives in Tunbridge Wells with her impossibly handsome husband Patrick and their six children.
Also by Louise Fuller (#uc0093a0b-f555-5729-8755-669cf2db2d15)
Vows Made in Secret
A Deal Sealed by Passion
Claiming His Wedding Night
Blackmailed Down the Aisle
Kidnapped for the Tycoon’s Baby
Surrender to the Ruthless Billionaire
Revenge at the Altar
Demanding His Secret Son
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Consequences of a Hot Havana Night
Louise Fuller


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08816-9
CONSEQUENCES OF A HOT HAVANA NIGHT
© 2019 Louise Fuller
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Note to Readers (#uc0093a0b-f555-5729-8755-669cf2db2d15)
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To Aggie:
For allowing me to relive the eighties and nineties
(go Buffy!),
and for trying hard at the things you find hardest.
All my love. X
Contents
Cover (#u15feef11-7bec-516d-a5d1-fbe78a5344b4)
Back Cover Text (#u041ca705-dc9e-5837-a219-314ebeb94707)
About the Author (#ubb8eca6b-ac31-5147-81ba-4d9b5e7b93b2)
Booklist (#u4dd2a7aa-35a4-5ae1-922e-e239f4654653)
Title Page (#u3f65b72c-0f09-5486-86b5-042a9631990a)
Copyright (#u730562ea-3800-5037-a0b0-06d22e752222)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#ub8c300c1-991f-5683-80c5-02239147f1cf)
CHAPTER ONE (#uf836341b-22f9-5da2-add8-7c8f1c1a234b)
CHAPTER TWO (#ufa79d803-6923-5fca-8472-7112b4376955)
CHAPTER THREE (#u27a9eaa3-ca8f-5390-9aac-ad2cdcb62d2c)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#uc0093a0b-f555-5729-8755-669cf2db2d15)
GAZING OUT AT the sun-soaked, shimmering turquoise sea, Kitty Quested held her breath.
It was strange to imagine that this water might one day be curling onto the shingle beach near her home in England. But then, even now, nearly four weeks after arriving in Cuba, everything still felt a little strange. Not just the sea, or the beach—this incredible scimitar of silvery sand—but the fact that for now this was her home.
Home.
Lifting the mass of long, copper-coloured curls to cool her neck, she felt her throat start to ache as she imagined the small coastal village in the south of England where up until a month ago she’d lived out her whole life.
Birth.
Marriage.
And the death of her childhood sweetheart and husband Jimmy.
Pushing back the brim of her hat to see better, she blinked into the sunlight as a light breeze lifted her hair, blowing fresh against her cheek and reminding her of everything she’d left behind.
Her parents, her sister Lizzie and her boyfriend Bill, a two-month tenancy on a one-bedroom terraced cottage overlooking the sea. And her job at Bill’s start-up, distilling what had become their first product: Blackstrap Rum.
She felt a sharp pang of homesickness.
When Miguel Mendoza, director of operations at Dos Rios Rum, had called her three months ago to discuss the possibility of her creating two new flavours for the brand’s two hundredth anniversary, she’d never imagined that it would lead to her moving four thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean.
If she’d allowed himself to think about it she would have refused. She’d been flattered to be asked but, unlike Lizzie, she was by nature cautious, and the hand she’d been dealt in life had taught her to be wary. Accepting the Dos Rios job would not just boost her salary, it would mean leaving everything and everyone she’d ever known. But, five years after Jimmy’s illness and death had put her life on hold, change was what she wanted and thought she needed in order to put her grief behind her and start living again.
So, five minutes after putting the phone down, she’d called him back and said yes.
And she didn’t regret her decision. Her new home, a white single-storey villa, was beautiful, and only a short walk from the beach. Everyone was friendly, and after three years in Bill’s cramped stillroom, working in the vast state-of-the-art Dos Rios lab felt like a treat. In so many ways it was absolutely the fresh start she’d imagined. She’d made new friends and was building a career. But one part of her life remained untouched—
Her throat tightened.
And it was going to stay untouched.
Reaching up, she captured the dark red hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. At the airport she’d promised her sister that she would ‘let her hair down’. It was an old joke between them, because normally she tied it up, here in Cuba though she had started to let it hang free.
But her hair was one thing...her heart was another entirely.
Jimmy had been her first love, and she couldn’t imagine feeling about any man the way she had felt about him. Nor did she want to. Love, real love, was both a lightness and a weight, a gift and a burden, one that she didn’t have it in her to give or receive any more. Of course, nobody really believed her—her friends and family were convinced that it was just grief talking—but she knew that part of her life was over, and no amount of sunshine or salsa was going to change that fact.
Glancing down into the water, she felt her pulse jump as she spotted a cantaloupe-coloured starfish floating serenely in the gin-clear shallows.
Starfish! What was that in Spanish? she wondered. It wasn’t the kind of word she’d learned in the lessons she’d been taking back home—the lessons that had seemed less like a hobby and more like fate when Dos Rios had offered her this four-month contract.
Star was estrella and fish was pescado, but that didn’t sound quite right. If only Lizzie was here to help. Her sister had studied Spanish and French at university and had a natural affinity for languages, whereas her own dyslexia had made even learning English a challenge.
Pulling out her phone, she was just about to look up the word when it began to vibrate.
Her lips curved upwards. Speak of the devil! It was Lizzie.
‘Are your ears burning?’ she asked.
‘No! But my feet are soaking wet. Will that do?’
Hearing her sister’s burst of laughter, Kitty started to smile. ‘Why are your feet wet?’
‘It’s not just my feet. I’m soaked through. And please don’t tell me that you miss the rain!’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Kitty protested—although she did, actually.
‘You were thinking it.’
Kitty laughed. ‘It must be quite a downpour if you got that wet going from the house to the car.’
‘The car wouldn’t start so I had to walk to the station. I missed my train, and then the next train was held up, and the waiting room was closed for renovations, so me and all the other poor sad wage-slaves just had to stand on the platform and get wet.’
‘I thought you were going to get a new car?’
‘And when we need to, we will.’ Lizzie spoke calmly. ‘So stop fretting and tell me why my ears should be on fire?’’
Kitty felt the tightness in her chest ease. Lizzie and Bill had basically supported her, not just emotionally but financially, for the last four years. When Jimmy had been admitted into the hospice she had moved into Lizzie’s spare room, and after his death Bill had asked her to help him with his latest venture—a micro rum distillery.
It had been an act of kindness and love. They hadn’t really been able to afford her salary, and she’d had no experience and nothing to offer except a degree in chemistry.
She could never truly repay them, but after all the sacrifices Lizzie had made the least she could do was convince her sister that they had been worthwhile and that her new life was fabulous.
‘I wanted to know what the Spanish word is for starfish,’ she said quickly. ‘And I thought you’d know.’
‘I do—it’s estrella de mar. But why do you need to know?’ Lizzie hesitated. ‘Please tell me you’re not adding starfish to the rum? Bill and I ate them in China—on sticks like lollipops—and I really don’t recommend it.’
Kitty screwed up her face. ‘That is gross—and, no, of course I’m not going to put starfish in the rum. I just keep seeing them in the sea.’
She heard her sister groan. ‘You’re looking at one right now, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be at work? Or have I got my times wrong again?’
Kitty grinned. ‘I’m not in the office, but this is work. I’m doing research.’
Lizzie said a very rude word that her mother had once sent Kitty to her room for saying.
‘Well, I just hope you’re covering up. You know how easily you burn.’
Glancing down at her long-sleeved blouse and maxi-skirt, Kitty sighed. ‘The sun isn’t that hot now, but I’m wearing so much clothing and sunblock I’m probably going to come back paler than when I left anyway.’
‘Who knows? You might not come back at all. Not if that gorgeous boss of yours finally decides to pay a visit to his hometown and your eyes meet across a deserted boardroom...’
Hearing the teasing note in her sister’s voice, Kitty shook her head. For all her pragmatism, Lizzie was actually a committed believer in love at first sight—but then she had every reason to be, having met Bill in a karaoke bar in Kyoto on her gap year.
Kitty, on the other hand, had not even had to leave her house to meet Jimmy. He’d lived next door and they’d met before they’d even been able to walk, when his mother had invited her mother over for tea one afternoon when they were just babies.
‘I work in the labs, Lizzie. I don’t even know where the boardroom is. And even if he does come to Havana, I don’t suppose my “gorgeous boss” will even know who I am, much less care.’
After she’d hung up, having promised to call later, Kitty made her way back up the beach to the forest that edged the sand. It was always cooler there than anywhere else.
She wasn’t rushing—and not just because the pine needles were slippery to walk on. It was just how people did things in Cuba. Even at work everyone moved at a pace of their own making, and after a week of replicating her typical English nine-to-five day she’d surrendered to ‘Cuban’ time. It had felt odd at first, but the sky hadn’t come crashing down—and, as Mr Mendoza had told her the first time they’d spoken—she was her own boss.
But as she made her way along a path edged with sea grape and tamarind trees, her cheeks felt suddenly warm. What was she talking about?
Like everything else on this untouched peninsula, these trees, the beach, probably even the starfish, were all part of the Finca el Pinar Zayasestate. A private estate that belonged to el jefazo—the big boss, as his staff referred to him.
César Zayas y Diago.
His name was not so much a name as a spell. Rolling her tongue over the exotic syllables, she felt her stomach tighten nervously, as though even thinking them inside her head might have the power to conjure the man himself to this deserted woodland.
Some hope!
Lizzie might imagine that she was going to cross paths with the Dos Rios boss, but so far she hadn’t even spoken to him on the phone. He’d copied her in on some emails, and she’d received a letter of congratulations allegedly from him when her contract had been finalised, but realistically it was unlikely that he’d even seen it.
Somehow she couldn’t imagine the elusive, work-hungry, publicity-shy CEO sitting in the penthouse office of his company headquarters, chewing his pen and trying to find exactly the right words to toast her success. And that signature that she’d spent so long examining had probably been perfected by one of his personal assistants a long time ago.
Not that she was bothered at his lack of interest. In fact, she was quite relieved.
She had moved from the quiet English coast to the pulsing heart of the Caribbean, but she was still a small-town girl, and meeting her legendary and no doubt formidable boss was an experience she was happy to miss.
And he must feel the same way about meeting her, because he had visited the head office twice since she’d arrived, and both times he had left before she had even realised he was in the country.
Truthfully, though, she hadn’t been expecting to meet him. He might have a beautiful Colonial-style home on the estate, and the site of the original distillery was the Dos Rios headquarters, but his business took him all over the world. According to her colleagues, he visited Havana infrequently, and rarely stayed more than a couple of days.
Of course she was curious about him—who wouldn’t be? He had taken a modest, family-owned rum distillery and turned it into a global brand. And, unlike so many of his business peers, he had done so at the same time as refusing to play the media game.
She ducked under an overhanging branch, wondering why it was that despite his phenomenal success César Zayas’s private life was so private. If he was famous for anything aside from his rum, it was for the way he guarded his privacy with almost pit-bull determination.
Perhaps he was just modest. His biography on the Dos Rios website certainly implied that: it was brief to the point of being minimalist. There were no personal comments or inspirational quotes, just a couple of lines hidden in a more general piece about the history of the company.
Even the photo accompanying the piece seemed designed not to inform but to mislead anyone looking to find out more about the man behind the brand. He was standing in the centre of a group of men lounging on a veranda, glasses of ron in their hands, the colour of the liquid an exact match for the huge burnt orange sun setting behind them. It was an informal shot, but it perfectly captured their camaraderie and their glorious masculine swagger.
They were casually dressed, shirtsleeves rolled up, collars loosened, arms resting on each other’s shoulders. Some were laughing, some holding the island’s other famous export—the Cuban cigar.
All were gazing at the camera.
All except one.
Remembering the picture, Kitty felt her mouth grow dry.
The Dos Rios CEO was turning away, so that his face was slightly blurred, and it was possible only to sense the flawless cheekbones and sculpted jawline beneath the smudge of dark stubble and tousled black hair.
There was no key to identify who was who, but it didn’t matter. Even blurred, his features and the clean lines of his buttoned-up and clearly expensive shirt were stamped with an unmistakable air of privilege, that sense of having the world at his feet. For him, life would always be bright and easy and fast—too fast for the shutter speed of any camera.
Only his smile—a smile she had never seen but could easily imagine—would be slow...slow and languorous like a long, cool daiquiri.
She swallowed, almost tasting the hit of rum and the tang of lime on her tongue.
Except she didn’t drink daiquiris. Daiquiris were cocktails, and she had never felt cool or confident enough to order one. Not even here in Cuba.
Especially not here in Cuba.
Everyone was so beautiful and sun-kissed and happy. The men had dark, narrowed gazes and moved like panthers, and the women made even the simplest actions—crossing the road, buying fruit at the market—look as though they were dancing the Mambo.
She hadn’t dared to face Havana at night, but she had visited three times during daylight and she could still feel the vibrancy of the city humming in her chest—drowsy but dangerous, like a swarm of bees. She’d been captivated not just by the people but by the faded revolutionary slogans on the walls promising Revolución para Siempre—Revolution For Ever—and the Pantone palette of gleaming, buffed máquinas,the classic nineteen-fifties American cars that lined every street.
Everywhere there were reminders of the past from elaborate, Colonial-style balconies to curving marble staircases. It was vivid, and exhilarating, and she had been tempted to press herself against the hot stucco and absorb some of the lambent warmth of the city into her blood before heading off to explore the tangle of alleys leading off the main squares.
Only she had a terrible sense of direction.
Speaking of which—
She had reached a fork in the path, and she stopped and glanced hesitantly in both directions.
There was no point trying to use her phone—the signal was only strong enough right by the sea—and it was impossible to see over the tops of the pine trees that gave the estate its name. If she went the wrong way it would take for ever. She’d just have to make her way to the track-cum-road that led through the estate and then she’d know where she was.
She felt her heart begin to beat faster.
Her villa was at the edge of the estate. Usually it was home to one of the maids who worked at the main house, but she had gone to the other side of the island to take care of her sick mother, so it was currently empty. She’d been told by Andreas, the head of Dos Rios security, that she was welcome to explore the estate, but she had mostly stuck to the beach and woods around the house. She had never gone as the far as the road before, not on foot anyway.
It took less than ten minutes, and as she stepped between the trees onto the edge of the track she knew immediately where she was. Thank goodness. From here, her villa was only ten minutes away.
Breathing out in relief, she lifted up her hat and fanned her face—and then froze. Half hidden by the dark green vegetation, sunlight dappling their backs, were a group of the wild horses that roamed the estate.
Her heart gave a thump. She knew from conversations with Melenne, who came in three times a week to clean the cabaña, that the horses were not wild in the sense of dangerous, they were just not ‘broken’. They moved freely, foraging in the woods, and it showed in their satin-smooth coats and toned muscles.
They were so beautiful, she thought, feeling a lump building in her throat, and tentatively, slowly, she took a step closer, holding out her hand to the nearest one. She held her breath as he gazed at her assessingly, and then her pulse darted as his soft, velvety nose snuffled against her fingers.
Breathing out cautiously, she held her hand steady—and then suddenly there was a rumbling growl from behind her, and as one the horses turned and wheeled away between the trees.
What the—?
Turning round towards the noise, Kitty lifted her hand to shield her face as a burst of sunlight hit her eyes. The noise swelled into a roar and there was a gleam of metal. She gasped, the sound choking off as a motorbike and its rider reared up in front of her. She got just the briefest impression of dark eyes narrowing in surprise, and then everything seemed to go into slow motion as the bike swerved away from her, skidding, tilting sideways, sliding smoothly across the coarse-packed dirt until finally it came to a shuddering stop.
For a moment, time contracted to a heartbeat.
Was he hurt?
Was he—?
She couldn’t even think the word—and she pushed it away. She was struggling to breathe, her brain scrabbling, her mind stunned, disbelieving what had just happened. And then something opened inside of her chest, and even as panic jostled with fear she was running towards the bike.
The rider was already on his knees, and as he clambered to his feet he glanced up at her and swore in Spanish under his breath—or at least she assumed by the tone of his voice that he was swearing. Her Spanish lessons had been more focused on conjugating verbs than on cursing.
As she reached the bike she stopped and glanced back down the road, stomach clenching. From here it was possible to see clearly in both directions. Had she been standing on this spot she would have seen the bike, and he would have seen her, and the accident would never have happened.
The randomness of it made her head spin. In contrast, the motorcyclist seemed remarkably unperturbed.
Watching him, she felt her skin start to prickle. He was pressing his hand against the chassis of the bike as though it was one of the horses he’d startled, making the muscles beneath his oddly formal white shirt strain against the poplin.
He looked so vivid and real and she hated that he might have been hurt; hated too that she had unwittingly played a part in his accident. If only she had been standing where she was now. But then she would never have met him—this man.
Her breathing jerked as the thought sneaked into her head from nowhere and refused to leave.
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 (#uc0093a0b-f555-5729-8755-669cf2db2d15)
‘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.’
‘Do you have children?’
‘What?’ She stared at him in confusion.
‘I just thought—’ He held her gaze. ‘You just seem like someone who knows how to care for people, and you’re so well-prepared.’
Her heart was pounding. It made no sense, but for one crazy moment she almost told him the truth. This man, this stranger. Only he didn’t feel like a stranger. It felt like he knew her so well.
Throat tightening, she stared past him, remembering the months she and Jimmy had spent trying to get pregnant. She had so wanted to give him a baby, but her body just hadn’t co-operated. By the time she’d decided to look into it medically, Jimmy had been diagnosed, and then afterwards it hadn’t mattered anymore. Although, since arriving in Cuba her cycle had been all over the place, so clearly her body was just ultra-sensitive.
Lifting her chin, she found him looking at her. Meeting his gaze, she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t have any children. I can’t have them,’ she admitted.
Before, in England, it had always hurt even to think that sentence inside her head, but somehow saying it now, to him, made it hurt less. How crazy was that? And unfair. To her parents and friends and Lizzie. They had spent so long talking to her, and yet here she was opening up to this stranger—this semi-naked stranger.
Her face felt hot and tight. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t need to know that that.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I asked a question and you answered it.’
His words repeated themselves inside her head. He made it sound so simple. But of course it was simple. Everything was simple between them. They had no history, no past, no future. Nothing but a random connection on a dusty road.
And a fluttering pinwheel of anticipation spinning inside her stomach.
Had she been looking for love or seeking some kind of romantic adventure then it might have felt different. But there would never be anyone like Jimmy. What she’d felt for him had been unique, and it was over now—and that was fine, because she knew too how it felt to lose the one you loved, and she never wanted to feel that ache of loss again.
He shifted forward and her pulse boomeranged.
What she wanted now was him. This man. This nameless stranger. To feel the hot, languorous touch of his hands and lips warming her skin like sunshine.
His fingers brushed against hers and she tensed, her breath scraping against her throat.
She could smell his cologne, that hint of sandalwood and lemon, and beneath it his own clean, masculine scent, a sensual halo of salt and shade and burning sun. Her pulse leapt forward unsteadily, heat rising up over her throat as his dark green eyes rested on her face.
He was too close, but she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to get closer, to touch the curve of his mouth, to feel the tension of his skin, the swell of his muscle. She wanted to hold him close, and be held, to have the warm, solid intimacy of his body pressing against hers.
‘You’re trembling.’ He frowned. ‘It’s probably some kind of delayed shock. Let me get you—’
She felt suddenly desperate. Her blood pulsed against her skin. She didn’t want him to leave. ‘No.’ Her fingers closed around his. ‘No, it’s not that.’
Her heart was suddenly beating too fast, and her blood felt as if it had turned to air.
For a second they both stared at each other. He was so close now—close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin and see the flecks of amber in his eyes.
He wasn’t a memory or a fantasy.
He was beautiful, full of life and energy, warm and solid and real.
And he was shaking too. She could feel him.
The sound of her heartbeat was filling her head. She felt almost dizzy with longing.
‘No, it’s not that,’ she said again. ‘It’s this...’
Leaning forward, she pressed her hand against his chest and breathed out unevenly. His skin was warm and smooth and taut, just as she’d imagined. And beneath it she could feel his heart hammering in time with hers.
He sucked in a breath, his jaw tightening. In his narrowed eyes she could see desire fighting with control, and she felt her breath dissolve as he reached up and stroked her cheek.
For a moment their eyes locked, and they breathed each other in, and then, leaning forward, she brushed her lips hesitantly against his, her mouth clumsy with the freedom of touching him.
‘I don’t even know your name...’ he whispered against her mouth.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
She kissed him again and he pulled back a little, his fierce green gaze trained on her face. She knew that he was giving her space to think, time to change her mind.
Her heart was racing. Should she say something? Tell him that this wasn’t who she was ordinarily? That she’d changed her mind. Only she couldn’t say that because it would be a lie.
And it would mean stopping, and she didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want to think or speak or explain. She just wanted to lose herself in this moment, lose herself in him, because right now this was what she was, and he was who she wanted.
Threading her fingers through his hair, she pulled him closer. Instantly he pulled her closer too, angling his body, his tongue, to deepen the kiss. His hands slid beneath her blouse, moving over her back from her hip to her waist, up to the catch of her bra.
He stripped her out of her clothing and pulled her onto his lap so that she was straddling him. Lowering his mouth, he kissed her breast, brushing his lips against one nipple and then the other, and in a heartbeat her body turned to liquid.
The intensity of her desire was both a shock and a revelation. Always before it had been a slow and steady progress. This was like throwing a match on gasoline—a pure white-hot blazing urgency that blotted out everything but a need for more.
His hands were at her waist, pulling her down. His mouth was seeking hers now, and instinctively she reached for his buckle.
Groaning, he grabbed her wrists. ‘Let’s go to your room.’ He was fighting to get the words out.
‘No.’ Tugging her hands free, she pulled the belt open, and then the zip, and felt his body tense as her fingers wrapped around him.
He groaned again, his hands stilling hers. ‘I don’t have any condoms.’
‘I don’t either.’
For a moment, she was shocked. In the heat of everything, she had forgotten. But his words reassured her, for clearly he was a responsible lover, and the fact that he was holding back made her feel that she could trust him.
‘It’s okay.’ Leaning forward, she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely.
Groaning, he raised his hips, shrugging himself free of his trousers, and then he leaned backwards, taking her with him.
His pupils flared and for a second she rode him lightly, teasing the hard, straining length of him, revelling in her power to arouse him. And then, gripping his shoulders for balance, she parted her legs and guided him inside her.
He breathed in sharply. His jaw was taut with concentration, the muscles in his arms and chest bunching as she began to rock back and forth, her breath quickening in her throat as his fingers moved between her thighs, working in time to the fervent, pulsing ache there.
His eyes locked on hers—dark, rapt, blazing. ‘Mírame! Look at me,’ he said, his voice hoarse.
She was fighting for control. Heat was gathering inside her and she clutched frantically at his arms, pulling him closer and then pushing him away, needing to let go but wanting to make it last for ever.
Her muscles clenched, her breathless body gripping his. She felt his hands catch in her hair and suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer. Arching against him, she tensed against the heat and the hardness, shuddering helplessly. He groaned, pushing against her, seeking more depth, and then, gasping into her mouth, he thrust upwards.

CHAPTER THREE (#uc0093a0b-f555-5729-8755-669cf2db2d15)
SLOWLY CÉSAR BREATHED OUT, his eyes blinking open. For a moment he didn’t know where he was—and then he remembered. He must have fallen asleep for a moment, lulled by the languid warmth of her body and the sudden heaviness of his own limbs.
Fixing his eyes on the ceiling, he frowned. It had been a long time since he had held a woman close like this, more than a decade, at least. But then today had been exceptional for any number of reasons.
His chest tightened as he felt the most exceptional of those reasons shift beside him.
Glancing down at her naked body curled around his, he felt his pulse accelerate. He’d just done the one thing he’d sworn never to do again—he’d let his libido dictate his actions.
He grimaced. As if he needed any reminding about the consequences of that youthful, humiliating indiscretion. They were branded in his conscience and he could still feel his parents’ shock and disappointment across the years. After he’d made such a fool of himself with Celia he’d sworn never to let a woman get under his skin. And he’d kept his promise.
Until today.
Until...
He gritted his teeth. Maldita sea! Thanks to his sudden and completely uncharacteristic loss of self-control he didn’t even know her name, but the strength and speed of his desire had caught him unawares. He should have fobbed her off on the road. Better still, he should have called Andreas, his head of security, and let him deal with her. It was his job, after all. But instead he’d let himself be distracted by a curving pink mouth.
He could have called a halt when she’d leaned forward and kissed him with that same perfect, pink mouth, but as her lips had melted against his, his brain, his body, his self-control had gone into meltdown. His past, his promises had been forgotten. Nothing had mattered but her. His whole being had been fixed on the need to touch and taste every inch of her, and even now his still-hungry body was clamouring for more.
But perfect pink lips could still lie and deceive and frankly there was no need for him to go there again. He might have been young, but he was a quick learner—and that lesson had been well and truly drummed into him.
His mouth twisted. So what now?
As though she could hear his thoughts, the woman shifted against him, and instantly his groin began to ache. Reluctant to reveal the hard proof of her ability to turn him on, he started to move. But she was already inching backwards, peeling her damp skin away from his and scooping up the muddle of clothes from the floor in one graceful movement.
Was she practised at this?
The thought snagged in his head and then he pushed it quickly away. It was none of his business, and besides he wasn’t in any position to judge.
‘Here,’ she murmured. ‘These are yours.’
Looking up, he gritted his teeth.
She was pulling her blouse over her head and, catching a glimpse of her pale, curving breast, he felt his skin twitch, his body hardening and aching with a sudden, sharp, serrated hunger. She looked impossibly sexy, and suddenly the heated, passion-filled minutes of earlier felt like just a taster before the main meal.
He wanted more. He wanted to feel that soft skin next to his and the whisper of her breath against his mouth.
He felt another twitch of desire—although this time it might just as easily have been irritation.
Obviously he wanted more.
His last ‘relationship’ had ended a little over seven weeks ago and, having been flat out at work ever since, trying to resolve this damned trademark dispute, he’d neglected his personal life. Although, given how hard he tried to maintain boundaries, maybe impersonal life might be a better description.
Either way, to put it bluntly he hadn’t had sex in a long time, and this beautiful, uninhibited woman standing in front of him had stirred his hunger.
So what if she had?
It had happened, and it had been incredible. Better than incredible, he thought, his heartbeat jerking as their tangle on the sofa replayed inside his head. And he wasn’t going to pretend that he wouldn’t willingly pull her back onto that sofa and carry on where they’d left off. Or deny that she was attractive, or that he was attracted to her. But whatever this was—this thing he was feeling, this unruly, insistent enchantment that had sneaked up on him unannounced—he wasn’t going to act on it again, no matter how hollowed out with longing he felt.
In fact, his unprecedented physical response only increased his determination to stay cool and detached. For he’d already made the mistake of trusting his body before, and his libido had been proved a poor judge of character.
He glanced down at the scars that ran across his chest and down his muscled abdomen. They might come from a different kind of foolhardy behaviour, but they were honestly acquired, and not the result of emotional weakness or self-delusion.
There would be other women, and next time he would look where he was going.
A breath of cool air drifted over his skin and, leaning forward, he took his trousers and shirt from her outstretched hand and started to get dressed.
In his experience, women normally tried to extend this moment. It was one of the reasons he always preferred to find somewhere neutral to meet. But this woman hadn’t even wanted to know his name, and having sex with him didn’t appear to have changed that fact.
It was a completely new experience for him—one that in theory he should welcome. And yet he found himself feeling slightly aggrieved by her lack of curiosity.
But then in some ways—although he wouldn’t make a habit of it—his anonymity, and hers, was actually a bonus. For the first time in his life he’d had sex with a woman who didn’t know or care who he was and, weirdly, he found himself trusting her more because of that.
This hadn’t been some carefully planned attempt to seduce him. Nothing was fake. She hadn’t told him she loved him or that he was special, nor made any promises. They had both got what they wanted and now they could get back to their lives.
He buckled up his belt and began pulling on his shirt, ignoring the slight tightness in his arm as he pushed it into the sleeve.
‘Is your arm okay?’
Looking up, he felt his pulse slow. A lock of that glorious red hair hung loosely across her forehead, and he had to stop himself from reaching out and smoothing it away from her face.
‘Yes. Good as new.’
Holding his gaze, she gave him a small stiff smile. ‘I’m glad.’
There was a moment of silence, and then she cleared her throat. ‘Look, I don’t really know what’s normal for this situation. I don’t usually do this kind of thing, you know—’
He waited a moment, then shrugged. ‘Me neither.’
Watching the tic of tension along the curve of her jaw, he knew for certain that he’d got under her skin. What was less certain, though, was why that mattered to him.
She flushed. ‘Okay, well... I’m sure you’ve got things to be getting on with.’
His hand stilled against the top button of his shirt. In other words she wanted him to leave. She was kickinghim out.
‘Of course.’ He felt a twist of irritation, followed by a sudden intense need to dictate the terms of their encounter. Deliberately slowing down the buttoning of his shirt, he glanced assessingly round the room. ‘Nice house,’ he said slowly. ‘How did you find it?’
Her eyes met his. ‘It came with my job.’
He felt a ripple of disquiet. ‘What job?’
She frowned, not at his question but at the terseness in his voice that he hadn’t bothered to disguise.
‘I work for Dos Rios—you know, the rum. You might have heard of them.’
His chest tightened. Dos Rios had a policy of providing temporary accommodation for consultants and overseas contractors. His PA would know the details, but obviously he wouldn’t have been notified. The comings and goings of his employees was way below his pay grade.
‘I should do,’ he said. ‘As the business was founded by my family.’
He paused, watching her face as he let his words sink in.
‘What do you mean?’
The colour had drained from her cheeks. She was staring at him in confusion.
‘I—I didn’t—I don’t...’ She was struggling to speak.
‘Understand?’ He finished her sentence. ‘Then perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is César Zayas y Diago.’
* * *
In the still, tense silence that followed his remark, Kitty felt her insides loosen. ‘No, you can’t be,’ she said hoarsely.
Her stomach was in freefall.
It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be, she thought frantically. She’d been in the labs only yesterday, and surely somebody would have said something about his imminent arrival.
He must be lying.
Only her skin felt suddenly too tight, her heartbeat too loud, and as though she was looking at him for the first time she registered the tiny pleats at the top of his shirtsleeves; the expensive dark suit trousers and the handmade black leather brogues.
His eyes rested on her face and she felt a prickle of heat spread over her skin as he held out his hand.
‘I assure you I am.’
His voice had grown cooler, its authority no longer like quicksilver beneath the surface but smooth and inflexible like high tensile steel, and with a pang of acceptance she knew that he was telling the truth.
There was only one thing to do and, feeling her breath ricocheting against her ribs, she took his hand and shook it briefly.
His eyes raked her face and then he smiled. Only it wasn’t the slow, languorous smile of her imagination. Instead it was cool and assessing and uncompromising. The smile of a CEO...the smile of a boss.

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