“Yes. I hope so, at least.”

“Whatever they tell you, at the end of the day, their interests will always come first. You’re expendable to them, and they won’t hesitate to use you in order to further their own interests.”

“Maybe I’m using them.”

“It’s not a game.”

I laugh, the sound devoid of humor. “You think I don’t know that? I come from a country where men are executed without proof, in travesties of trials without any respect for their legal rights, for nothing more than the fact that Fidel has willed it so. And before that? Batista was no better. And before that? I come from a long line of dictators. Trust me, your CIA can do their worst, and I seriously doubt it will come close to the things I’ve seen.”

“And yet you want to return to Cuba?”

“Cuba is my home. It will always be home. I will always wish for it to be better, to be what I think it could be, but yes. It will always have my heart.”

“I admire your loyalty.”

“But?”

“Look, I understand. My family wanted me to be involved in politics, but at the same time, I wanted to do it for my own reasons. I was young when I went off to fight in the war. It was exciting in a distant sort of way, and it seemed like the sort of thing I should do. And when I saw what war was, outside of the books I’d read or the stories I’d heard, I understood just how important politics and diplomacy were. War should always be a last resort. That desire for more you speak of; I understand it. I hope my work in the Senate can help in some small way. But at the same time—”

“What? I shouldn’t risk my life? You risked your life because you believed in what you were fighting for, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“It’s not really different then, is it? Or is it because I’m a woman?”

Perhaps it is better to be a woman now than it was when my mother was my age, but whatever progress has been made still doesn’t feel like nearly enough, and I’ve learned that even in America, where democracy and freedom are preached with religious fervor, there are different definitions of “free.” Women in Cuba and the United States alike are still viewed as extensions of other people—fathers, husbands—rather than as our own selves, to be judged on our own merits.

“No, I suppose it shouldn’t be different,” Nick answers.

The waiter collects our finished meals, interrupting the moment between us.

We peruse the after-dinner menu as though we both wish for this evening to continue, languishing over drink choices and ultimately deciding to order dessert.

Nick tells me about his work in the Senate, his desire for sound fiscal policy, for balancing the budget. He speaks of his concerns that the government doesn’t do enough to support people when they need it most, his hopes to come up with a solution for Social Security to provide medical care for the elderly.

It is strange to hear him speak of these policies with such fervor and passion. I am more used to fiery rhetoric than sound policy, and balancing the budget is hardly a stirring topic. And yet, it is clear the policy inspires him, that he believes the best things that can be done to improve people’s lives are often the small changes. I am so used to being surrounded by men intent on destruction and revolution that it is refreshing to hear a man growing excited about building something, however incrementally.

I admire him tremendously.

I talk about my sisters, about life in Cuba with the taste of pineapple on my tongue and a Brandy Alexander clouding my head. Or maybe the man is responsible for the feeling inside me, this giddy, achy feeling.

Once we’ve spent as much time as absolutely possible in the restaurant, tables clearing out, the night growing later, Nick walks me back to the hotel.

It seems as though it takes us far less time to get back to the hotel than it took to walk to the restaurant, and despite the late hour, I yearn to turn down side streets, to prolong my time in his company.

Our conversation tapers off the closer we get to the hotel, the building looming before us.

Will he be married the next time we see each other?

Nick follows me into the lobby, his hand on my waist. I wait for him to release me, for the evening to reach its natural conclusion: me tucked under the covers of my hotel room bed, him somewhere out in the city.

Does he keep an apartment here? Is he checked into an elegant hotel, or does he stay with his family when he’s in the city?

A group of businessmen spills out of the hotel bar, their raucous laughter filling the nearly deserted lobby.

“I’ll walk you up to your room,” Nick offers, his gaze darting to the men, his hand tightening around my waist.

The men watch us walk through the lobby, comments about how lucky the man with me is reaching my ears.

Nick tenses beside me.

“Leave it,” I whisper. The last thing either one of us needs is a scene.

He gives me a clipped nod, his strides lengthening until we reach the bank of elevators.

The elevator operator greets us as I tell him the number of my floor, and Nick releases me, his arm falling to his side. We take the elevator up to my room in silence, the car blissfully empty of other guests. I watch the buttons light up as we ascend to distract myself from the nerves rising in my stomach.

The elevator stops, and the door slides open. I keep my gaze trained on the carpet as I step into the hall, Nick behind me.

The elevator whirs to life as it continues its journey. In the distance, a baby’s cry emanates from one of the rooms, mixing with the noise from a television farther down the hall.

I reach into my purse and fumble for my room key, pulling it out with shaky fingers.

I wish I’d met him a year ago, before he got engaged, when I’d just arrived in Palm Beach, before I became involved in this mess with the CIA. I wish I’d never met him at all so I wouldn’t know what I’m missing.

“Thanks for dinner.”

“It was my pleasure,” Nick replies.

I wish I could read his mood, but his emotions are hidden, until the silence stretches on, and I summon the courage to ask the question that has run through my mind all evening.

“Why did you come find me?”

He’s quiet for so long I almost think he isn’t going to answer me.

“Because I wanted to see you.”

He says it like a man unburdening himself of a great and terrible secret.

God help me, I do what everyone says I do. I push.

“Why?”

“Because I think of you. Constantly. Because I wonder what it would be like to kiss you. For you to be mine, even for a moment.” His voice cracks. “Do you?”

My heart thunders in my chest so loudly I imagine he can hear it, too, the sound of it sputtering and racing, filling the empty hotel hallway, joining the baby’s cries, the television’s chatter, the hum of the elevator.

I nod, and then because I want to give him the words, because it seems right to match his courage and candor with my own, I say—

“Yes.” I swallow, the key biting into my palm as I fist my hand, careful to keep from reaching out and touching him. “Constantly.”

The elevator starts up again, coming back down. Anyone could see us like this. At any moment, the elevator door could open and someone could step out.

“I should go to my room.”

“You should go to your room,” he agrees, lowering his head as he moves closer to me, as he tucks me into the curve of his body.

I take a deep breath, and then another, steadying myself.

With my free hand, I trail my finger along the cuff of his elegant Burberry trench coat, curling under, brushing the suit fabric beneath, grazing the soft skin at the inside of his wrist.

He shudders against me.

My fingers tremble as I press my hotel room key into his palm.

I walk toward my hotel room door alone, leaving Nick standing in the hallway behind me.

My gaze rests on the wood door, my legs quaking beneath my dress, the sound of his footsteps filling my ears, the elevator whooshing between floors.

I close my eyes as his hand settles on my waist, at the scent of orange and sandalwood, his breath against my neck. I open my eyes to the sight of his tanned, naked fingers placing the key into the keyhole on my hotel room door.

chapter twelve

The hotel room door closes behind us.

I face him.

“We should talk about this.” Nick sets the key down on the nightstand.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“What do you want then?” he asks.

“You.”

“I’m a politician. There’s scrutiny—”

“I’m used to the scrutiny. I don’t care.”

“It’s different,” he warns. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I don’t want to hear all the reasons this is a terrible idea. I know it is probably a terrible idea, that my actions this evening have been brazen to the extreme, that I am about to cross an invisible line for which there shall be no return. I don’t want reality to intrude on this moment.

I sigh. “You think I’m too young for you.”