“I want to see you again.” He hesitates. “Can I see you again?”

“My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow evening. Do you want to stay with me until then?”

“Yes.”

And just like that, we stop talking about politics.

It’s different the second time. There’s a familiarity between us that has sprung up in a remarkably short time, the kind of knowledge that comes only with intimacy.

Before we fall asleep, he turns to face me, his head against the pillow.

“Why tonight? Why me?”

“Because I wanted it to be you.” I take a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling, lights from the street flickering through the crack between the curtains. “Why this? Why me?”

“Because I wanted it to be you.”

“On the balcony?”

“Before that.”

“When?” I demand, greedy and a little bit tipsy from the bottle of champagne we ordered from the bar and shared earlier.

“When I saw you in the ballroom. Andrew was on his knees making a fool of himself, and you just stood there, and I could see you were there, but you weren’t, and I wanted to be wherever you were.”

“It’s an election year.”

Now is not the time for recklessness.

“It is.”

“And you’re to be married.”

Nick sighs. “I am.”

He shifts, bringing me against his side, wrapping his arm around my waist. My eyes close to the sound of his breathing, to the beat of his heart against my back.

chapter thirteen

The dream starts as it always does—me sneaking out of our house in Havana, the money I stole from my father’s safe to give to my brother stuffed in the little handbag I carry around my wrist. I’m in a hurry, worried about Alejandro, if he’s safe, if he’s well.

I spy one of the gardeners off to the side of the house, and our gazes connect. Fear pricks me. Will he tell my parents? Are his loyalties to my family or to the new regime?

The gardener breaks eye contact first, going back to his duties, as though he’s aware of the trouble that usually follows in my wake and wants no part of it.

I’m almost at the front gates of our estate.

A car rounds the corner, going far too fast for our street considering the number of children that reside in the surrounding houses.

The tires screech. A door opens. A body hits the ground.

I am running, the purse abandoned somewhere on the gravel of our front driveway, my legs pumping, heart pounding.

I scream.

When I was younger, I followed Alejandro out into the ocean one day, and a wave overtook me, water filling my lungs, panic flooding my body as I attempted to save myself.

That’s what the dream feels like—like I’m drowning, and I can’t save myself, and I can’t look away.

My brother’s dead face stares back at me.

I jolt awake, my limbs weighted down like lead, chest heaving, my breath coming in harsh pants.

“You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

I shift in bed, my eyes adjusting to the semidarkness, momentarily disoriented and surprised to see Nick looking at me with concern in his gaze.

He strokes my back as I take deep breaths, trying to get my heart rate back under control.

“Can I get you something?” he asks, the kindness in his voice bringing a lump to my throat.

I shake my head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” I croak.

He sits up in the bed, making a space for me to curl into his body, and something turns over in my heart.

It feels like the most natural thing to lay my head on his bare chest, for his arm to wrap around my waist, holding me tight.

“When I came back from Europe, I had these dreams . . .” He flinches. “Still do sometimes.”

“Does it ever get easier?” I ask.

He bends down, his lips brushing the top of my head.

“It does. It takes time.” His grip around me tightens. “It never really goes away, though.”

“No, I imagine it doesn’t.”

We don’t let go of each other for the rest of the night.

* * *

? ? ?

    We spend my last day in New York drinking champagne naked in bed, dining on chilled lobster and a thick cut of filet mignon. We don’t speak of politics, or his fiancée, or Fidel, or the future, but I learn some of the answers to the questions that have filled my mind about him, and he learns some Beatriz secrets, too.

“Tell me about your family,” he says.

“My family?”

“I’m curious.”

“It’s really not that exciting.”

“Now why do I have a hard time believing that? I’ve seen your sisters in action.”

I laugh.

“What was your brother like?” he asks, his tone gentler.

“He was fun. When we were younger, he always had a trick up his sleeve, always wanted to go in search of an adventure. He was charming. And he was kind. We all spoiled him, of course; he was the only boy with four sisters. He loved it.”

“It’s nice to be able to be friends with your siblings. You’re lucky in that. It isn’t always so.”

“My sisters have always been my friends. And Alejandro was my best friend. I don’t know how to describe it, but we understood each other in a way no one else in the family did. Maybe it was a twin thing.”

“You must miss him terribly.”

“Always. It feels wrong to move on with my life knowing he won’t ever have the opportunity to do so.”

Nick brushes a stray tear from my cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell me about your family,” I say.

Nick leans back against the headboard.

“My family is big and loud, and full of expectations and plans.”

“Was the Senate one of their plans?”

“It would be easier if I could say that, wouldn’t it? No, that one was all my own. Sometimes I curse myself for it, but mostly I’m grateful for it. My work in the Senate saved me.”

“How so?”

“When I came back from Europe, I was lost. During the war, I was surrounded by men who fought for the same things I did. There was a brotherhood there. It disappeared when I came home.”

“And the Senate gave that back to you?”

“I suppose it did.”

“I never got the impression senators were so chummy.”

“We are and we aren’t. And still, we’re working toward a common cause. I missed that sense of purpose when I came back.”

“Why politics?”

“I’m in a unique position. I was born into a family that hasn’t had to struggle for the basic things other people in this country are fighting for. I have a platform and a voice thanks to my last name, and I want to use it to do some good in this world. I saw firsthand what comes of not speaking up for what you believe in when I was fighting in Europe, what silence can do to a man, and I want to make the world better than I found it.”

“Is it true what they say? That you dream of being president one day?”

He shoots me a wry grin. “If you’re going to have a goal, why not make it a big one? At the moment, though, I’m just hoping for reelection. It’s not my time to run for the presidency, yet, and besides, the party is in good hands.”

“You’re friends with Kennedy, aren’t you?”

“So you did ask about me.”

I laugh. “Let’s just say it’s hard to make it through a season without hearing the name ‘Nicholas Preston’ on everyone’s lips. They say you and Kennedy are great friends.”

“He’s a great man. He’ll be a good president, will lead this country in the direction we need to go.”

“And after that?”

Nick smiles. “Perhaps one day it will be my time.”

“You’ll need to be careful, then. Future presidents can’t afford scandals.”

“No, they can’t.”

“You’ll need the right wife. The right family. The right image.”

“Yes, I will. I do.”

I swallow.

“Are there others? Other women like me?”

Even as I fear his answer, I make myself ask the question, because I will not go into this with anything less than my eyes wide open. He would hardly be the first man to have a woman in public and others in private.

“Have there been other women? Yes.”

I’m hardly surprised, yet I appreciate the honesty between us.

“There aren’t any other women now. There haven’t been for some time.” He sighs. “I wish I’d met you a year ago. I wish I’d met you before I made promises.”

“We shouldn’t do this again.”

“No, we probably shouldn’t,” he agrees.

chapter fourteen

We say good-bye in my hotel room, one last kiss between us, Nick’s arms wrapped around my waist, the body I’ve gotten to know so well pressed against mine, the business card with his private number scrawled on it clutched in my hand. Once Nick is gone, I head downstairs to the hotel bar, where Mr. Dwyer and I agreed to discuss my meeting with Fidel.

“I heard it went well with Castro last night,” Dwyer says by way of greeting when I sit across from him at the table.

“I think it did.”

“He liked the look of you.”

My eyes narrow. “If you had spies there, why did you need me?”

“I have spies everywhere, and I haven’t yet determined I need you.”

“What comes next then? What else do I have to do?”

“You made an impression. My sources told me Fidel was upset you left early. Upset he couldn’t enjoy some private time with you.”

Heat creeps up the back of my neck.