How could I not?

Mr. Dwyer never specified how close I should get to Fidel at this meeting. Was this his intent all along? Sleeping with Fidel would be one manner of gaining his attention, but considering my lack of expertise in that particular area, I fear it might be one evening and nothing more, and if I am not to kill him on American soil . . .

Could I sleep with him?

“You should go home, girl.” The brunette slides into the seat next to me, a glass of whiskey in hand.

“Excuse me?”

She smiles, her red lips curving as she leans closer to me, the scent of her perfume filling my nostrils. “You may be the toast of the society scene, but do you really think you could hold a man like Fidel’s interest for very long? You’re in way over your head.”

And suddenly, sitting next to this woman, watching her move, the mannerisms she affects, the sheer confidence and sensuality that seemingly oozes from her pores, she’s right. I feel out of my league.

She leans in even closer, her breath hot against my neck.

“Go back to where you came from, Beatriz Perez. Before you do something you regret.”

She rises from the chair, offering me a polite, impersonal smile before she slides back into her seat, turning her attention to the man next to her. He hooks an arm around her waist, pulling her onto his lap, his mouth on her neck.

I look away, my cheeks heating.

The tenor of the evening is changing, the men becoming more amorous, the women welcoming their attentions—or at least pretending to. I can’t make myself smile at Fidel, can’t accept the invitation in his gaze. Now that the moment is here—the choice mine—I can’t bear the thought of spending the rest of the evening on his arm and in his bed.

Fidel is accustomed to getting his way; I hope tonight I did enough to intrigue him. I hope our plan will be best served by keeping him dangling on the line.

I have nothing left to give.

* * *

? ? ?

I leave the party without a backward glance for Fidel, the weight of the brunette’s gaze on me as I reenact my own Cinderella routine sans the discarded pump. If Cinderella had paid what I did for these shoes, she’d have made sure she left the ball with both, too.

The cab ferries me from Harlem back to my hotel in Midtown, the New York skyline passing me by. I have one more day in the city, my flight leaving tomorrow evening, and then I am back to Palm Beach, expected to regale my family with stories of my indulgent weekend in the Hamptons, my lies swirling out of control.

What will I do if word of my appearance at the Hotel Theresa gets back to my parents? My father disowned Alejandro for participating in the attack on the Presidential Palace when Batista was in power. What will he do to me for consorting with Fidel? It is commonly accepted that I am his favorite, but even my father’s love has its boundaries.

We arrive at my hotel, and I pay the cab driver. I consider going up to my room, but the cramped space, austere walls, and ugly bedspread are far from appealing, and instead, I head toward the hotel bar. I was careful not to drink too much in Fidel’s presence out of fear for the alcohol loosening my tongue and the tight rein I kept on my emotions, but now I need a drink to bolster my flagging nerves, the adrenaline crash coming on strong.

I glance around the room for the kind waitress from earlier. Maybe I came here for that all along, the simple companionship of someone doting on me.

I don’t see her.

It’s rowdier here at night than it was during the day, although after the crowded room in Harlem filled with revolutionaries and a tyrant, a loquacious business traveler hardly seems fearsome. And still, the looks sliding my way—curious, interested, hungry—are unsettling.

I take a spot at the bar, waiting until the bartender, a young, handsome man a few years older than me, comes over and takes my order.

He talks to me while he makes my drink, setting the glass on the bar top in front of me with a wink and a smile.

The first sip of alcohol hits me with a kick, the night returning to me in waves as I attempt to recall what I said, what I overheard. I have a feeling Mr. Dwyer will want a thorough debrief. Fidel’s interest in the Congo will surely be of note to the Americans, as will his apparent desire to replicate his “success” in Cuba around the rest of the world, even if his methods in doing so are less clear.

The alcohol slides down my throat, the ice clattering around in the thick glass as I take another sip, and then another. My mother would be utterly horrified if she saw me now, the perfect posture she drilled into me spoiled by the hunched slope of my shoulders, my body tucked away in a corner of this unremarkable bar. I dab at my eyes with the cheap cocktail napkin the waiter set beneath my drink, the hotel’s name printed on the white square.

Perhaps I should have gone upstairs with Fidel. I likely should have killed him when I had the chance.

And suddenly, I feel almost unbearably alone here in this big city, far away from the familiar comforts from which I draw strength: the smell of arroz con pollo cooking in the kitchen, the sound of my sisters’ laughter, the feel of the sand beneath my toes, the sight of my nephew’s angelic smile. I should never have come here, never have attempted this. I want to go home, and at the moment, home doesn’t look like Havana, but rather, Palm Beach.

A man sporting a garish orange suit and a gaudy watch jostles my elbow. He bumps into me again, no apology, gesturing wildly, the liquid from his glass spilling all over the wood. I press my body closer to the wall, wishing I could make myself invisible in this corner of the room I’ve carved out for myself.

Finally, the man moves away, leaving me to my solitude.

The barstool next to me slides back with a screech, and I turn away from the interloper.

A tear runs down my cheek.

A white linen square of fabric slides across the bar top in front of me, entering my line of sight. The fabric is followed by the flash of a tanned wrist, a light sprinkling of fine hairs, a crisp white shirt, the wink of a cuff link, the scent of sandalwood and orange. I reach out, my fingers trembling as I trace the monogram on the square of linen, the elegant whorls of the initials, goose bumps rising over my skin as a palm settles against the small of my back.

N. H. R. P.

I turn, his tall form blocking out the rest of the crowd, creating our own private alcove in a room full of strangers, the anonymity making me bold, the months between us overshadowing any embarrassment I might feel over the likelihood that I look far from my best.

I smile.

“Hello, Nick.”

chapter eleven

Did I imagine running into Nick Preston in the city, albeit in much more glamorous surroundings than these?

Possibly.

Of course I did.

He looks tired, more so than the man I knew in Palm Beach, as though the campaigning and glad-handing has taken a toll on him. And still, he is every bit as handsome as I remembered.

“What does the ‘H’ stand for?” I run my fingers over the monogram on his handkerchief.

“Henry.”

“It’s a good name.”

“It was my grandfather’s.”

“How did you find me?”

Does he know why I came to New York?

“I have the odd connection or two that can prove useful,” Nick replies. “I asked at the desk, and they said you weren’t in your room. I thought about leaving you a note, but then I overheard someone mention a beauty in the bar, and, well—” He smiles. “Have you eaten?”

I shake my head, sweeping the handkerchief across my lower eyelid, more than a little horrified when it comes away with the smudged black kohl of my eyeliner.

He holds his hand out to me. “Then we’ll eat.”

I take his hand, still slightly dazed by his appearance, and we leave the hotel, turning onto the busy New York street. I haven’t adjusted to the pace here, the frenetic manner in which everyone walks, the sheer energy of it all. Nick’s palm lingers solicitously at my back, guiding me out of the way of oncoming foot traffic, his tall form hovering over me.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, admiring the manner in which his suit drapes his body, his coat in hand. Besides that first night on the balcony when we met, this is the longest we’ve been in each other’s company, the most privacy we’ve had, and I can’t resist the opportunity to indulge in the freedom of the evening.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, Nick stops in front of a nondescript restaurant shoved in between a flower shop and a bakery.

“It doesn’t look like much, but they have some of the best steaks in the city. Is this all right?”

It also doesn’t escape my notice that, like the hotel bar, it’s not the sort of place where he’s likely to be recognized.