I can’t look away.

Because even though he isn’t looking directly at me, even though there’s nothing in his demeanor to suggest he’s anything other than polite and solicitous toward his companion, I know the smile on his face—brighter than it was seconds before—is meant for me. I am immeasurably grateful I chose the red dress tonight.

Elisa sidles up next to me, her voice in my ear.

“Be careful with that one.”

In the year since we left Havana, my little sister has become a wife, a mother, and where her admonitions to proceed with caution rang with a faint hint of disapproval in Cuba, now there is a sagacity behind her words conveying the impression she’s the elder one.

“I will,” I lie as Nick Preston breaks away from the group and walks toward me.

I take a step away from Elisa. Then another one.

In the five weeks he has been gone, I’ve thought about this moment, played it over and over again in my mind, wondered if he was thinking of me in his home state of Connecticut, or at work in Washington D.C., or wherever his travels took him.

Every time I crossed a threshold into one of these events, every polo match, every charity lunch, every performance, I looked for him.

And now he’s here.

I’m vaguely aware of the other people in the room, my family somewhere behind me, but at the moment, they’re little more than a hum lingering in the background. Nick Preston has a way of filling up a room I imagine is so very useful in his political and personal life.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says in greeting.

I grin, any hope of sophistication likely obliterated in the face of the giddiness his compliment brings. “Thank you.”

I fear my crush has deepened since I last saw him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I echo. Neither one of us speaks, and I’m certain we flaunt matching embarrassed smiles.

My name is uttered in an urgent tone behind me, and I turn, in time to see Isabel flash me one of those looks we’ve developed for conveying whatever needs to be said without speaking at all. Sisterly intuition and all that. I shoot her a bland smile as if to suggest everything is fine, as though anyone who knows me well can’t read the temptation lingering in my eyes.

I pivot back to face Nick.

He steps closer to me, his tall form shielding me from the rest of the room.

“I’ve spent the whole night watching the door,” he murmurs. “Wondering when you would arrive.” His voice is a silken caress. “And now you know one of my secrets.”

I duck my head, my cheeks heating. “Everyone is watching us.”

Perhaps tonight will be forgiven when the next scandal emerges, if he is seen on his fiancée’s arm enough. Perhaps it will be forgiven with time, but his reputation will fare far better in this than mine will even though he’s the one with the fiancée.

Does he love his fiancée? Does she love him?

“Does it bother you?” he asks as though he’s just noticed the attention we’re drawing.

“That people so vehemently dislike me? Not particularly. If I only went places where I was wanted, I’d hardly go anywhere these days.”

“Then you’re braver than I thought,” he answers, his voice gentle—too gentle.

“Don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t. Not even a little bit.”

“Liar.”

He smiles. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s so much that they hate you as that they fear you.”

“I’m the least fearsome thing I can imagine,” I scoff.

“I suppose it’s a matter of perspective then, because I’d disagree.”

I am equally struck by the desire to laugh and the need to weep.

“You’ve been to war.”

“I have.”

“Don’t tell me I am more terrifying than a blitz.”

The corners of his mouth quirk up. “Perhaps not more terrifying. But you have a way of making a man doubt himself I never felt when I was in the sky.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Utterly terrifying.”

We both know, how can we not? This is a hello and a good-bye all wrapped into one.

My sisters and my parents have moved on, but I’ll probably get an earful about this encounter later.

“What are we doing?” I ask him.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Hell if I know.”

“We should probably stop.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“I have sisters, and they have reputations that need protecting. And at the moment, everyone is craning their necks to hear what we’re saying.”

Regret flashes in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“What was it you said earlier about savoring your last moments of freedom?” he asks. “Want to dance?”

I laugh despite the melancholy filling me. “It seems like all we ever do is dance.”

“It’s probably the safest activity of all the ones we could do. But perhaps not the most fun,” he amends, a dimple winking back at me.

I hesitate. “One dance. And then no more.”

“One dance,” he agrees.

And suddenly, his hand is there, outstretched between us, and it seems the most natural thing in the world to place my palm against his, for his fingers to curl over mine.

Nick leads me out onto the dance floor as a new song begins.

Eduardo is on the dance floor with a pretty redhead, a smile on his face, his gaze trained on Nick and me. Eduardo inclines his head toward me in a mock salute.

I will tell Eduardo this part of his plan is off the table; I won’t use the attraction I feel for Nick to advance our interests in Cuba.

Nick follows my gaze until his settles on Eduardo as well. “We both lead complicated lives, don’t we?”

“What isn’t complicated in this climate?”

“True. Not everyone understands, though.” He looks out over the ballroom, his attention shifting away from Eduardo. “Some people are content to attend parties like these and pretend everyone is fortunate enough to live like this.”

“We made that mistake in Cuba. For a time, at least. We learned our lesson in the worst possible way.”

“What would you do if things were different? If Castro was gone?”

“I would go home,” I answer without hesitation. “I don’t belong here. I belong in Havana, with my old friends, the family still there. Our nanny, Magda. This—Palm Beach—is a temporary life, a purgatory of sorts.”

“I’ve never been to Cuba. I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

“It is beautiful. The beaches, the countryside, the mountains, the city, all those old Spanish buildings—” In my memory, I see the island exactly as it was, the sun rising over the Malecón. “It’s the closest thing to paradise. On the surface, at least,” I amend. “We have much work to do.”

“And you want to be part of that work?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you? It’s my home.”

“You feel a responsibility, then?”

“And a desire. I’ve received the benefit of an education, even if it wasn’t quite the one I envisioned, even if my academic ambitions were thwarted due to my mother’s beliefs in feminine endeavors. I should do something with that education, shouldn’t I?”

“You absolutely should.”

The sincerity in his voice surprises me. It hasn’t escaped my notice that many women in the United States are, in many ways, nearly as restricted as far too many women in Cuba.

“Perhaps I’ll visit you in Cuba someday. You can show me around the island.”

I try to match his smile, imagining a date we will never keep between us. “Perhaps.”

The final strands of the song stretch through the ballroom, and then it’s over, and he releases me.

He hesitates, as though he, too, is reluctant to walk away. “Thanks for the dance.”

His smile’s erased now. Mine, too.

“It was my pleasure,” I reply.

“Good luck with everything. I hope you’re able to go home like you want.”

Nick takes my hand once more, his lips ghosting across my knuckles, and then he’s gone.

I walk back to my sisters; the stares cast my way are inescapable, the whispers far louder than is polite. They will eventually disappear; this indiscretion will be forgotten.

I will forget him.

chapter six

A thud wakes me from my slumber. The sound jolts me, and for a moment, I forget where I am, the darkness of my room adding to my confusion.

Three more thuds follow the first one. Then a whisper carried on the wind that sounds a lot like my name.

“Beatriz.”

There it is again.

The sound is a familiar one, and my disorientation returns again, catapulting me to my old bedroom in the house in Miramar, to the days after Alejandro was disowned by our parents, when I used to sneak out to see him, slipping him food and money, exploring the city and engaging in revolutionary activities with him and Eduardo by my side.

I throw back the covers, grabbing my robe from the foot of the bed and slipping it on, fumbling with the tie at my waist.

Another thud. Louder now—

“Beatriz.”