Читать книгу Consequences Of A Hot Havana Night - Louise Fuller - Страница 12

‘YOU’RE BLEEDING!’

César Zayas y Diago gazed at the woman standing in front of him, frustration momentarily blotting out the pain in his arm. He didn’t regret the injury. He never did. No matter how intense, physical pain was straightforward and short-lived. It didn’t make you question who you were.

‘You’re bleeding,’ she said again.

She was English, not American—he recognised the accent—and a tourist, judging by her clothes. Probably she’d been sold a boat trip and then just dumped on the beach and left to find her own way home.

He would have to speak to his security team, but right now he needed to focus on the matter in hand—and most especially this titian-haired trespasser.

As his gaze fixed on her face his breath caught in his throat. No wonder he’d gone head over heels. She was astonishingly beautiful.

The first few seconds after coming off the bike he’d been too busy picking himself up to notice, his body distracted and tensed against any incoming pain. But now that he had time to look at her he was finding it hard not to stare.

She was slim, maybe too slim—certainly for his taste—but there were curves too beneath her clothes, and he could practically feel the heat coming off the cloud of flame-coloured hair that reached her elbows. But it was the contradiction between that accusatory, grey gaze and the sensual promise of that fascinating, perfect pink mouth that was making his head spin.

His shoulders tensed. Was it deliberate?

Somehow it seemed unlikely. His eyes flickered assessingly over her face. She looked nervous, less sure of herself than when she’d been berating him—or trying to berate him—in beginner’s Spanish.

But then she’d just had a shock.

Glancing down at his right arm, he pressed his fingers against the damp fabric, grimacing.

This was supposed to have been a rare, unscheduled moment of downtime. His day had started in Florida. He’d woken early for a five-thirty session with his trainer and moved seamlessly into a four-hour meeting with his lawyers over some cheap import that was using almost identical bottle branding to Dos Rios. The email about the bike had come into his inbox just as the lawyers were leaving, and on impulse, he’d decided to take a diversion to Havana.

He still wasn’t sure why he’d even ordered the bike in the first place. Coming to Cuba required both an effort of will and a secrecy he loathed but couldn’t avoid—his parents got so upset when he returned home. But maybe, subconsciously, he’d just wanted to make a point to himself that he could.

Besides, a motorbike was an easy way to top up his need for adrenalin, a need that he recognised, and embraced in those hours not spent pursuing global domination of the rum market.

And it had felt good—not just the spontaneity of kicking free of his schedule, but the actual act of bonding with the bike. His body and mind had been immersed in the angles of the road and the rush of the wind—and then suddenly she was there.

Like all accidents, it had happened too quickly for him to have any real sense of anything beyond the bike slip-sliding away from him, the earth tilting on its axis, a glare of sunlight and a blur of trees, and then the noise of metal hitting stone, followed by silence.

Even before he’d looked down and seen the blood he’d known he’d hurt himself, but he’d had enough injuries to be able to differentiate between those requiring a Band-Aid and those that needed a trip to A&E. And anyway, after the first shock had worn off he’d been more worried about her.

She’d been so agitated and upset that he had deliberately angled his body away from hers so that she wouldn’t see the blood—only then she’d fronted up to him, like a skinny little ginger cat, and he’d forgotten all about his arm.

Nothing had mattered except wiping that dismissive uppity sneer from her mouth.

Preferably with his mouth.

He felt his pulse jerk forward.

Careful, he warned himself. She might be beautiful, but he didn’t need another lesson in the pitfalls of acting on impulse—and by that he didn’t mean taking a bike for an unplanned road test.

Her eyes were wide with panic. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘It’s fine.’ He held up his hands placatingly, and then regretted it as a drop of blood splashed onto the pale dirt.

‘How can you say that when you’re dripping blood everywhere?’

She was looking at him as though she’d seen a ghost. For a moment he thought about telling her about the other times he’d come off a bike, but it might backfire and make her panic more. And anyway, it was private. All of it was private. His pursuit of precision, the transcendence of the everyday and that heightened awareness that came with being at one with the machine. How could he explain what it felt like to lose all sense of himself—his past, his position as CEO, all of it—in the heat and speed of the ride? Why would he want to explain that to her?

He glanced past her back down the empty road. Why was she even here? On her own. She was just a tourist and now she was in the middle of a drama. No wonder she looked out of her depth.

It made him feel both irritated and protective. And then he felt angry with himself for feeling anything at all. Feelings—his in particular—were dangerously unreliable. He had the scars to prove it. And he wasn’t talking about the ones on his body.

‘Look, nothing’s broken. It’s just a graze.’

‘Even if it is you should still get it checked out. It’s not worth taking the risk.’

His jaw tightened. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her exactly who he was, and that this was his estate and she was trespassing, and therefore the risk was all hers. But that would only confuse matters further.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a professional opinion?’

She glared at him, her chin jutting upwards. ‘I don’t have a car, but I could call an ambulance.’

An ambulance?

Frowning, he shook his head, contemplating all the time-consuming and unnecessary complications of such a step. ‘Absolutely not. It can wait until I get home.’

Forehead creasing, she took a step forward. ‘I don’t think you should wait. What happens if you feel dizzy, or the bleeding won’t stop?’

She hesitated, and he could see the conflict in her eyes—doubt at what she was about to suggest fighting with a determination to do the right thing. A long time ago he too had been just as transparent and easy to read. But he’d learnt the hard and humiliating way to keep his feelings hidden, or better still to avoid them altogether.

Her grey eyes rested on his face. ‘Look, we can walk the bike back to my villa. It’s not far from here. I have a first aid kit and I know how to clean a wound. At least let me take a look before you do anything else.’

So she lived nearby. He wondered where she was staying. From memory, he thought there were a couple of villas beyond the woods, but it seemed an odd place to choose as a holiday home. Most of Havana’s visitors liked to be nearer the city centre and all the regular tourist attractions. But there was something about this woman that made him think that perhaps she wasn’t here for the Malecón, the Gran Teatro or the Plaza Vieja.

So why was she here?

The answer shouldn’t matter, but for some reason it did. Before he had a chance to wonder why, he heard himself say, ‘Okay. You can take a look at it. But no ambulance.’

The walk to her villa took less than ten minutes.

Inside, she gestured towards a comfy-looking sofa. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you a glass of water.’

Sitting down, he felt a sense of déjà-vu. It was exactly the kind of traditional Cuban cabaña that his grandparents had grown up in, only theirs had been home to at least ten people. Not that they’d seemed to mind. For them—for his own parents too—family was everything.

He shifted in his seat, the ache in his chest suddenly sharper than the ache in his arm. He knew that his mother and father were proud of how he had built up the business, and grateful for the comfort and security he had given them, but what they really wanted—what would make them willingly give up their luxurious lifestyle in a heartbeat—was a grandchild they could spoil. Not that they said so, or at least his mother didn’t, but he felt their hope every time he mentioned a woman’s name in passing.

His stomach twisted. Children required parents, and typically that meant two people who loved one another, only that just wasn’t going to happen for him. Maybe the right woman was out there somewhere, logically, statistically, he knew she must be. But no amount of logic could counteract the fact that he didn’t trust himself to choose her, not after what had happened with Celia.

‘Here.’

She was back. Handing him a glass, she sat down beside him with a bowl of water, a towel and a large plastic box. When she’d told him she had a first aid kit he’d assumed she meant something she’d picked up at the airport. This, though, looked on a par with the kits at the distillery.

‘You’re very well prepared,’ he said softly.

He felt her tense.

‘It’s just the basics.’ She glanced up at him accusingly. ‘You should probably have a kit on your bike.’

In fact he did have one, and he was on the point of telling her that, but he was suddenly too distracted by the way her beautiful red-gold eyebrows were arching in concentration as she rummaged through the box.

Pulling out a packet, she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, then dropping to the shining patch of crimson on his upper arm. ‘I need to see if it’s stopped bleeding.’

‘Okay.’ He nodded, but he was distracted by a glimpse of her feet. She had taken off her shoes, and there was something strangely arousing about her bare toes.

Pulling his gaze away, he glanced back up at her face.

A trace of pink coloured her cheeks. ‘So I need you to take your shirt off,’ she said huskily.

* * *

Kitty swallowed.

I need you to take your shirt off.

As her words reverberated inside her head and around the room her eyes darted towards the triangle of light gold skin at his throat. If only she’d just ignored his objections and called an ambulance. Outside, on the road, with his shirt turning red, she hadn’t thought about anything but the fact that he needed help. She certainly hadn’t envisaged him taking his clothes off. But how else was she going to be able to deal with his injury?

She cleared her throat. ‘Or I could cut the sleeve off?’ she offered.

He didn’t reply. He just stared at her. And suddenly she forgot all about his shirt, and even his injury, for nobody had ever looked at her so intently. It was as though he was trying to see inside her, to read her thoughts. Her muscles tightened against a sudden flood of heat. No one had ever looked at her with such focus, not even her husband. It was intimate, exhilarating, both an intrusion and a caress—

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll take it off,’ he said.

She watched as he started trying to undo the buttons, but they were sticky with blood, and before she knew what she was doing she leaned forward, batting his hands away.

‘Here. Let me.’

Her heart began to beat faster as her fingers pulled at the buttons. She could feel the heat of him beneath his shirt and, try as she might, she couldn’t stop her eyes from fixing on his sleek bronze skin as the fabric parted.

Her fingers twitched against the buckle of his belt and, avoiding his gaze, she lifted her hands and inched backwards. ‘I’ll let you take it from here,’ she said.

He shrugged his left shoulder free and then peeled the shirt tentatively away from his injured arm.

For a moment she stared at him in silence, her heart pulsing in her throat. It had been such a long time since she had looked at a man’s body. Or at least a body that looked like his.

With broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist his body was muscular, but not overly so, with just the finest trail of dark hair splitting the lean definition of his chest and stomach. His skin was smooth and golden, but it wasn’t his skin that drew her gaze, but the two scars running almost parallel up his abdomen.

Clearly he hadn’t been joking when he’d said he’d had far worse injuries. But why, having been so badly hurt, would anyone take more risks?

It wasn’t a question she could ask a stranger—not even one sitting bare-chested on her sofa.

‘What do you think?’

Lost in thought, she was caught unawares by his question and gazed up at him dazedly.

‘What do I think?’ she repeated his question slowly. Her brain seemed to have stopped working.

‘About my arm.’

Dragging her eyes up to the curve of his bicep, she breathed out unsteadily. He had been right. The skin was scuffed, and crusted with grit from the road, but it was just a graze.

‘I think it will be fine, but it’ll be easier to say once I’ve cleaned it.’ She gave him a small, tight smile. ‘Tell me if I hurt you.’

There was quite a lot of blood, but she wasn’t squeamish, not any more...not after everything she’d seen and had to do for Jimmy. And anyway it was easier not to think about what so nearly might have happened if there was something practical to do.

‘I will.’

His eyes met hers and she felt his gaze flow over her skin, cool and dark and unfathomable like a woodland pool. Her stomach knotted fiercely. Outside, in the aftermath of the accident, there had been so much going on. Now, though, his aura was undiluted—a mix of sandalwood and sexual charisma that made a flicker of unfamiliar heat rise up inside her.

Forcing herself to ignore his body, she focused on trying to be as gentle as possible as she washed away the blood, carefully easing loose the tiny pieces of grit that were embedded in the graze. There was just one last bit now...

She could feel his pulse vibrating steadily beneath his skin, and yet one tiny variable on that road might have stopped it beating for ever. The thought made her shake inside with loss and anger—anger at the unfairness of life, and with this man who wore his beauty and certainty like a shield.

Biting her lip, she leaned in closer, resting her hand against his thigh to help steady herself.

‘Sorry.’ She’d heard him breathe in and, glancing up, saw he was gritting his teeth. ‘Did I hurt you?’

She felt his leg muscle tighten, and quickly she lifted her hand.

‘Not exactly,’ he said, staring straight ahead. ‘Have you finished?’

‘Almost.’ She patted his skin dry with the towel. ‘I don’t think it will bleed any more, but I’ll put this dressing on, then you won’t have to think about it.’

Glancing down, she frowned. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’ Picking up his hand, she washed the smudges of dried blood from his fingers. ‘There.’

‘Do you have children?’

‘What?’ She stared at him in confusion.

‘I just thought—’ He held her gaze. ‘You just seem like someone who knows how to care for people, and you’re so well-prepared.’

Her heart was pounding. It made no sense, but for one crazy moment she almost told him the truth. This man, this stranger. Only he didn’t feel like a stranger. It felt like he knew her so well.

Throat tightening, she stared past him, remembering the months she and Jimmy had spent trying to get pregnant. She had so wanted to give him a baby, but her body just hadn’t co-operated. By the time she’d decided to look into it medically, Jimmy had been diagnosed, and then afterwards it hadn’t mattered anymore. Although, since arriving in Cuba her cycle had been all over the place, so clearly her body was just ultra-sensitive.

Lifting her chin, she found him looking at her. Meeting his gaze, she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t have any children. I can’t have them,’ she admitted.

Before, in England, it had always hurt even to think that sentence inside her head, but somehow saying it now, to him, made it hurt less. How crazy was that? And unfair. To her parents and friends and Lizzie. They had spent so long talking to her, and yet here she was opening up to this stranger—this semi-naked stranger.

Her face felt hot and tight. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t need to know that that.’

‘Don’t be sorry. I asked a question and you answered it.’

His words repeated themselves inside her head. He made it sound so simple. But of course it was simple. Everything was simple between them. They had no history, no past, no future. Nothing but a random connection on a dusty road.

And a fluttering pinwheel of anticipation spinning inside her stomach.

Had she been looking for love or seeking some kind of romantic adventure then it might have felt different. But there would never be anyone like Jimmy. What she’d felt for him had been unique, and it was over now—and that was fine, because she knew too how it felt to lose the one you loved, and she never wanted to feel that ache of loss again.

He shifted forward and her pulse boomeranged.

What she wanted now was him. This man. This nameless stranger. To feel the hot, languorous touch of his hands and lips warming her skin like sunshine.

His fingers brushed against hers and she tensed, her breath scraping against her throat.

She could smell his cologne, that hint of sandalwood and lemon, and beneath it his own clean, masculine scent, a sensual halo of salt and shade and burning sun. Her pulse leapt forward unsteadily, heat rising up over her throat as his dark green eyes rested on her face.

He was too close, but she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to get closer, to touch the curve of his mouth, to feel the tension of his skin, the swell of his muscle. She wanted to hold him close, and be held, to have the warm, solid intimacy of his body pressing against hers.

‘You’re trembling.’ He frowned. ‘It’s probably some kind of delayed shock. Let me get you—’

She felt suddenly desperate. Her blood pulsed against her skin. She didn’t want him to leave. ‘No.’ Her fingers closed around his. ‘No, it’s not that.’

Her heart was suddenly beating too fast, and her blood felt as if it had turned to air.

For a second they both stared at each other. He was so close now—close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin and see the flecks of amber in his eyes.

He wasn’t a memory or a fantasy.

He was beautiful, full of life and energy, warm and solid and real.

And he was shaking too. She could feel him.

The sound of her heartbeat was filling her head. She felt almost dizzy with longing.

‘No, it’s not that,’ she said again. ‘It’s this...’

Leaning forward, she pressed her hand against his chest and breathed out unevenly. His skin was warm and smooth and taut, just as she’d imagined. And beneath it she could feel his heart hammering in time with hers.

He sucked in a breath, his jaw tightening. In his narrowed eyes she could see desire fighting with control, and she felt her breath dissolve as he reached up and stroked her cheek.

For a moment their eyes locked, and they breathed each other in, and then, leaning forward, she brushed her lips hesitantly against his, her mouth clumsy with the freedom of touching him.

‘I don’t even know your name...’ he whispered against her mouth.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She kissed him again and he pulled back a little, his fierce green gaze trained on her face. She knew that he was giving her space to think, time to change her mind.

Her heart was racing. Should she say something? Tell him that this wasn’t who she was ordinarily? That she’d changed her mind. Only she couldn’t say that because it would be a lie.

And it would mean stopping, and she didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want to think or speak or explain. She just wanted to lose herself in this moment, lose herself in him, because right now this was what she was, and he was who she wanted.

Threading her fingers through his hair, she pulled him closer. Instantly he pulled her closer too, angling his body, his tongue, to deepen the kiss. His hands slid beneath her blouse, moving over her back from her hip to her waist, up to the catch of her bra.

He stripped her out of her clothing and pulled her onto his lap so that she was straddling him. Lowering his mouth, he kissed her breast, brushing his lips against one nipple and then the other, and in a heartbeat her body turned to liquid.

The intensity of her desire was both a shock and a revelation. Always before it had been a slow and steady progress. This was like throwing a match on gasoline—a pure white-hot blazing urgency that blotted out everything but a need for more.

His hands were at her waist, pulling her down. His mouth was seeking hers now, and instinctively she reached for his buckle.

Groaning, he grabbed her wrists. ‘Let’s go to your room.’ He was fighting to get the words out.

‘No.’ Tugging her hands free, she pulled the belt open, and then the zip, and felt his body tense as her fingers wrapped around him.

He groaned again, his hands stilling hers. ‘I don’t have any condoms.’

‘I don’t either.’

For a moment, she was shocked. In the heat of everything, she had forgotten. But his words reassured her, for clearly he was a responsible lover, and the fact that he was holding back made her feel that she could trust him.

‘It’s okay.’ Leaning forward, she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely.

Groaning, he raised his hips, shrugging himself free of his trousers, and then he leaned backwards, taking her with him.

His pupils flared and for a second she rode him lightly, teasing the hard, straining length of him, revelling in her power to arouse him. And then, gripping his shoulders for balance, she parted her legs and guided him inside her.

He breathed in sharply. His jaw was taut with concentration, the muscles in his arms and chest bunching as she began to rock back and forth, her breath quickening in her throat as his fingers moved between her thighs, working in time to the fervent, pulsing ache there.

His eyes locked on hers—dark, rapt, blazing. ‘Mírame! Look at me,’ he said, his voice hoarse.

She was fighting for control. Heat was gathering inside her and she clutched frantically at his arms, pulling him closer and then pushing him away, needing to let go but wanting to make it last for ever.

Her muscles clenched, her breathless body gripping his. She felt his hands catch in her hair and suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer. Arching against him, she tensed against the heat and the hardness, shuddering helplessly. He groaned, pushing against her, seeking more depth, and then, gasping into her mouth, he thrust upwards.