“Are you happy?” I ask.

I’m not sure I’m prepared for either answer he could give me. I can’t stand the idea of him miserable, and I’m equally uncomfortable with the notion that he is madly in love with his wife.

He shrugs. “Does it matter, really?”

Not for people like us. “Happy” has gotten lost somewhere in between plots and politics, nation building and regime change, family and fortune.

“Why did you leave Palm Beach?” he asks.

“You know why. I couldn’t stay.”

“Will you ever come back?”

“I don’t know. It still feels like home, and it doesn’t. Like it belongs to someone else.”

“Are you not Beatriz Perez anymore?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t think I know who Beatriz Perez really is.”

“I don’t believe that. You’ve always known yourself better than anyone.”

“I’ve been blown off course,” I admit.

“London?”

“That, too.”

“I probably don’t want to know how you ended up here, do I?”

“Probably not.”

“I scoured every intelligence brief, read every newspaper; I saw your sisters at parties, and I wanted to ask—and then I did—”

Elisa never mentioned speaking with him.

He takes a deep breath. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

“Eventually, I heard rumors that you were capturing hearts and conquering Europe.”

I smile. “Not all of Europe. Just a corner of it.”

“You’re too modest. It wasn’t just London. I heard tales of your travels to Paris. And Barcelona.”

“I’m not the sort to sit at home crying over my broken heart.”

“Was your heart broken?”

It takes everything in me to refrain from looking down at his hands, the heart in question beating madly.

“A figure of speech.”

“Of course,” he counters smoothly. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Europe? Or the heart capturing?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Sometimes.”

“And the other times?”

“I was homesick.”

“For Cuba? Or Palm Beach? Or me?”

He delivers the last question with the same smooth confidence that has equal parts amused and infuriated me throughout the course of our relationship.

“All of them, I suppose.”

My gaze darts back to his hand.

Nary a tan line.

I can’t take the suspense anymore.

“And your wife? Did she accompany you on this trip?”

Surprise flickers in his gaze. “You haven’t heard?”

“I make it a habit not to keep up with the American papers.”

“I wondered when I didn’t hear anything from you—I’m not married.”

I can’t ignore the faint prick of hope.

“You’re still engaged?”

“No. I’m not engaged.”

For a moment, my world stops.

“Since when?”

“Since I realized I couldn’t imagine marrying someone I didn’t love. I wouldn’t be happy in such a marriage, and it wasn’t a matter of growing up, or settling down, but rather the realization that I wanted my wife to be a partner, someone I could enjoy growing old with, who would be my match in every way. It wasn’t fair to make promises to someone if I had even a shred of doubt I would be able to keep them.”

“That sounds like a tall order.”

“Does it?” He swallows, and he almost looks embarrassed. “Katherine was a nice girl, but she wanted the senator.”

“Lots of women will want the senator. In her defense, it sounds like you wanted the debutante. Just like lots of men want me because I have a pretty face and a pleasing figure.”

“I’m not sure either ‘pretty’ or ‘pleasing’ do you justice.”

I smile despite the urge to weep. “You always did possess more charm than God should give any one person.”

His lips curve.

“Will she be all right?”

“I think so,” he answers. “She’s engaged again. She seems happy. I don’t regret what happened between you and me, I can’t, but I do regret the fact that I acted less than honorably with her.”

It’s impossible not to feel as though Katherine Davies was caught up in the wreckage of our affair.

“And you?” Nick asks.

“What about me?”

“During your travels did you meet anyone . . .”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Do I? Maybe I do. The trouble is there were far too many nights when I struggled to fall asleep, that question playing through my mind over and over again.”

“Why are you here? For work? Or something else?”

“Did I know you would be here? Did I come here to see you? To attempt to win you back? What do you think, Beatriz? I missed you. And I was worried about you.”

“It took you long enough. I left Palm Beach eighteen months ago.”

“You can’t tell me you were waiting around for me to come to you.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

There’s a question in his eyes, one that shouldn’t need to be asked.

Stupid man.

“There were men.” No matter what is or isn’t between us, I won’t lie to him about this.

“Should I be worried?”

“I don’t know. Should you? Are you asking as my friend—or—”

The rest of it dangles between us.

“As the man who has loved you every day since the first moment I met you,” he finishes for me.

“Nick.”

“I know. Nothing has really changed, has it? We’re still on opposite sides, and we still want different things.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“And yet, here I am.”

I’d thought time would lessen my desire for him, that it would augment the differences between us. I’d thought the emotions inside me would peter out without anything between us to sustain us.

I was wrong.

“We still want different things,” I echo.

“Perhaps.” He shrugs. “Who knows? The world might change and surprise us.”

“And until then?”

“Until then, I want you. No one else.” He kisses my cheek, his hand resting on my waist for a moment before he releases me. “I’m in London until Monday. I’m at the Ritz. If you want to see me, I’ll be waiting for you. If you don’t, I understand. I’ll go back home. I won’t bother you again.”

And just like that, he leaves me standing alone on the balcony, wondering if I should go after him.

* * *

? ? ?

I walk back into the ballroom a few minutes later, more than a little rattled by seeing Nick again, searching the room for the Soviet colonel. All I want is to finish the mission I was sent here to complete and to go back to my flat, where I can be alone with my thoughts.

Where is he?

I weave my way through the crowd, casually sipping champagne, attempting to look as though I am not searching for a spy, a chill running down my spine.

And then I see him.

The colonel is tucked away in the corner of the room, his back against the wall, engaged in conversation with a woman whose hand rests on the sleeve of his dress uniform and another gentleman who gesticulates wildly.

“Beatriz?”

My stomach sinks at the sound of my name, at the voice I recognize too well.

I pivot, pasting a false smile on my face, my heart pounding.

“Ramon? What are you doing here?” I ask, not giving him a chance to pose the same question to me first.

If I’ve learned anything in the social whirl or as a spy, it’s to bluff my way through everything.

“I—uh—I came with some friends,” he answers. “What are you doing here?” he asks after a beat, and the time I’ve spent watching him stumble over his answer has given me ample opportunity to formulate my own response.

“I’m on a date.”

Ramon blinks.

“I didn’t think you and I were exclusive or anything,” I say, feigning the apology in my tone. “I assumed you were seeing other people as well.”

“I was,” he answers, the surprise in his voice contradicting his words.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the colonel break away from his companions, walking across the room.

Go away.

“I should return to my date.” I lean forward, attempting to keep my tone light. I flash Ramon a peek at my cleavage before pulling back.

Is he here for the Soviet colonel? To spy on the colonel’s movements for Fidel to pass on to the Soviets? Or is he here for some other reason entirely?

The decision is reached, quickly, no time for second-guessing. I glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with Ramon, channeling all of the inner turmoil and angst I felt when I saw Nick earlier, attempting to look like a girl who is torn between two men, a silly, foolish girl—and one easily discounted at that.

Confusion stirs in Ramon’s eyes, confusion and a prick of male vanity. He never once considered I was indulging in other dalliances while we flirted, and I hope that misstep combined with his surprise at seeing me tonight is enough to throw him off the scent.

I need the microfilm.