Are husbands and wives meant to flirt?

He smiles. “I’d worried I lost her, you know. When I saw you walking down the aisle toward me on our wedding day, you looked utterly terrified, like you were walking to your death.”

“Worried you lost who?”

“The girl I saw in Havana.”

“This isn’t Havana.”

“No, but you dazzle just the same.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “That is a terrible line.”

He rises from the table and holds his hand out to me. “Maybe it isn’t a line at all.”

I place my hand in his, wishing I could silence the doubts in my mind, the questions.

Why did he have to go all the way to Cuba to gain a wife? Surely, there were American girls who needed husbands and were willing to ignore a sullied background and whispers of ill-gotten gains?

So why me? Why marry a girl he barely knew? Was it his powerful connections in Cuba, his friendship with Batista, that enticed my family? Or did he offer my father money to marry me?

We walk through the open doors overlooking the patio, our hands linked, heading to the beach a hundred feet away, within sight of the house.

“My meetings shouldn’t take too long,” Anthony says. “We could take the boat out afterward if you’d like.”

“That sounds lovely. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sailor, though.”

“I’m not,” Anthony replies ruefully. “But surely one of the staff can show us the ropes.”

“My brother Emilio used to take me on his boat. I loved it.”

He grins. “Then perhaps you could show me the ropes. Are you close? You and your brother? I didn’t get the opportunity to spend much time with him when I was in Havana.”

“When we were younger, we were. We played together constantly. Sometimes our cousin Magdalena would join us. We’d spend all day in the backyard, pretending we were pirates, having adventures. They were some of my happiest memories. But Magdalena grew up and moved to Spain. And Emilio—he works too much now, is too serious to spend time with his little sister. As our father has gotten older, he’s given much of the responsibility of the business to Emilio.

“Emilio wanted to be a doctor. Before this mess with Machado. Our father was convinced he would outgrow the desire, but he never did. Then the choice was taken away from him.”

“He did his duty, and you did yours.”

There’s a question in his tone, one I have no desire to answer. How do you answer a question like that without an insult?

“I asked about you before I approached your father,” Anthony continues. “No one said your affections were tied, but . . . did you leave a lover back in Cuba?”

In this moment, I wish there had been a sweet boy who pressed gentle kisses to my lips and read me poetry on lazy Havana afternoons. I wish there had been something to acclimate me to this man who sees too much and pushes too hard.

“No, no one special.”

“And if there had been?” he asks.

“Would I have chosen duty or love?”

Anthony nods.

“I don’t know.”

“I suppose I should count myself lucky then that I didn’t have a rival for your affections.”

“‘Rival’ implies more effort on your part. You swooped in and snapped me up before we’d even been properly introduced.”

He laughs. “And I prefer this plainspoken version of you to the blushing, simpering debutante that greeted me after the wedding.”

“I didn’t blush a lot in Cuba,” I admit. “And certainly no simpering.”

“Then please don’t do so with me. I want the real version of you. Not who you think I want you to be.”

When he leans toward me this time, I’m ready for him, meeting him halfway as his arm hooks around my waist, pulling me against his body as his lips meet mine.

His grip tightens on my waist, his mouth slanting over mine, deepening the kiss, leaving me breathless and dizzy.

“You’re good at that,” I say when he releases me, my heart pounding insistently, my lips sensitive and swollen.

Satisfaction gleams in his eyes.

“You’ve likely had a great deal of practice,” I add, shamelessly fishing for the truth.

He doesn’t bother refuting my claim, and I can’t fault his honesty.

“You don’t lie, do you?” I ask. “Not out of politeness or consideration. Not to spare someone’s feelings.”

“No.”

“So if you aren’t a liar, then what is your biggest flaw?”

His lips curve. “Some would say greed.”

He’s right in front of me again, his fingers skimming my jawline, and this time, I’m the one who leans into the kiss, whose lips brush against his first. A soft gasp escapes his mouth, and a thrill fills me at the realization that I have caught him unaware.

There’s power in that; my life as a wife will likely be far easier if I can turn his head, if I can keep his attention.

Not to mention, I like it.

This time when we finish kissing, he doesn’t release me, but instead intertwines his fingers with mine.

“I have to go to my meeting.” The regret in his voice winds its way through my heart. “Will you be fine on your own?”

“Of course,” I reply. “Will you be meeting your associates here?”

“No. There’s a house up the road that we’re using for the meeting. I’ll be back soon.”

With a quick kiss to my cheek, he’s gone, walking back toward the house, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his collared shirt stretching across his frame.

It takes me far longer than it should after he’s left to collect myself, to turn my attention back to the water steps away from me.

It’s strange how different beaches can be, how their individual characters can make them so distinct.

Cuba is beautiful.

Islamorada is something else entirely.

The landscape is peppered with heavy brush, rendering my dainty sandals practically useless as the ground scrapes at my feet. Branches snag at the skirt of my dress. There’s an almost sinister quality to the scenery, as though the flora and fauna aren’t afraid to snap back at us interlopers and swallow us whole.

A swishing sound in the mangroves makes me jump. A dark snake slithers past me, inches away from my exposed feet, its body undulating in the dirt.