When We Left Cuba(16)

Elisa trails behind me, her arm tucked in her husband’s.

Maria is at home, likely cursing her youth and our mother’s rules.

Our parents bring up the rear, watching over us with proud expressions. Elisa’s wedding helped us gain a useful entrée to society, and no doubt they have even higher hopes for Isabel and me.

I scan the party like I always do, as though I’m heading into hostile territory and need to identify any and all threats, disappointed not to see Nick Preston’s blond head towering over those around him. Surely, he wouldn’t miss tonight, would he? There’s no sign of the fiancée on a second sweep, either.

I turn toward Isabel, and suddenly, a tingle slides down my spine, joined by a prick of awareness, a hum in my veins.

He’s here.

I swivel slowly until I see him.

Wherever Nick has been campaigning, he hasn’t lost his tan or the easy smile on his face that augments his charm.

He really is too handsome by half.

Nick stills, mid-conversation, inclining his head for a moment until his gaze rests on me. The curve of his lips deepens, a gleam entering his eyes for an instant before it is gone, his profile to me, his attention returned to the group surrounding him, hanging on his every word.

A flash of heat rises over my skin.

I can’t look away.

Because even though he isn’t looking directly at me, even though there’s nothing in his demeanor to suggest he’s anything other than polite and solicitous toward his companion, I know the smile on his face—brighter than it was seconds before—is meant for me. I am immeasurably grateful I chose the red dress tonight.

Elisa sidles up next to me, her voice in my ear.

“Be careful with that one.”

In the year since we left Havana, my little sister has become a wife, a mother, and where her admonitions to proceed with caution rang with a faint hint of disapproval in Cuba, now there is a sagacity behind her words conveying the impression she’s the elder one.

“I will,” I lie as Nick Preston breaks away from the group and walks toward me.

I take a step away from Elisa. Then another one.

In the five weeks he has been gone, I’ve thought about this moment, played it over and over again in my mind, wondered if he was thinking of me in his home state of Connecticut, or at work in Washington D.C., or wherever his travels took him.

Every time I crossed a threshold into one of these events, every polo match, every charity lunch, every performance, I looked for him.

And now he’s here.

I’m vaguely aware of the other people in the room, my family somewhere behind me, but at the moment, they’re little more than a hum lingering in the background. Nick Preston has a way of filling up a room I imagine is so very useful in his political and personal life.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says in greeting.

I grin, any hope of sophistication likely obliterated in the face of the giddiness his compliment brings. “Thank you.”

I fear my crush has deepened since I last saw him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I echo. Neither one of us speaks, and I’m certain we flaunt matching embarrassed smiles.

My name is uttered in an urgent tone behind me, and I turn, in time to see Isabel flash me one of those looks we’ve developed for conveying whatever needs to be said without speaking at all. Sisterly intuition and all that. I shoot her a bland smile as if to suggest everything is fine, as though anyone who knows me well can’t read the temptation lingering in my eyes.

I pivot back to face Nick.

He steps closer to me, his tall form shielding me from the rest of the room.

“I’ve spent the whole night watching the door,” he murmurs. “Wondering when you would arrive.” His voice is a silken caress. “And now you know one of my secrets.”

I duck my head, my cheeks heating. “Everyone is watching us.”

Perhaps tonight will be forgiven when the next scandal emerges, if he is seen on his fiancée’s arm enough. Perhaps it will be forgiven with time, but his reputation will fare far better in this than mine will even though he’s the one with the fiancée.

Does he love his fiancée? Does she love him?

“Does it bother you?” he asks as though he’s just noticed the attention we’re drawing.

“That people so vehemently dislike me? Not particularly. If I only went places where I was wanted, I’d hardly go anywhere these days.”

“Then you’re braver than I thought,” he answers, his voice gentle—too gentle.

“Don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t. Not even a little bit.”

“Liar.”

He smiles. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s so much that they hate you as that they fear you.”

“I’m the least fearsome thing I can imagine,” I scoff.

“I suppose it’s a matter of perspective then, because I’d disagree.”

I am equally struck by the desire to laugh and the need to weep.

“You’ve been to war.”

“I have.”

“Don’t tell me I am more terrifying than a blitz.”

The corners of his mouth quirk up. “Perhaps not more terrifying. But you have a way of making a man doubt himself I never felt when I was in the sky.”