When We Left Cuba(9)
Despite the manner in which Fidel has beggared us all, Eduardo’s upbringing is enough to ensure he finally looks momentarily abashed. “Fine. Don’t sleep with him. But see what comes from you holding his interest. Maybe he’ll be more amenable to helping us if he likes you.”
“He’s getting married,” I say for Eduardo’s benefit, and perhaps a bit for my own, the reminder a necessary one in the face of the memory of how much I enjoyed myself on the balcony last night.
Was he really watching me the whole evening?
“And you’re Beatriz Perez,” Eduardo retorts.
“I’m not going to ruin a man’s life or his marital ambitions. I’m not going to hurt innocent people.”
“He’s an American politician,” Eduardo counters. “How innocent can he possibly be? The Americans have unclean hands in all of this. There’s a party tonight. Your Senator Preston will be there. Come with me.”
I hesitate.
He smiles. “What’s the harm in trying? Like you said, it was only a dance.”
Eduardo throws the gauntlet down with a knowing gleam in his dark brown eyes—both a challenge and a plea—and damn him for it, because we both know I never was one for resisting lost causes or walking away from a dare.
* * *
? ? ?
The crowd differs from last night; there are no matrons or gray-haired parents. This is the fast set, some of the faces familiar, most a far cry from the parties I attend with my parents.
“You look beautiful,” Eduardo whispers, my arm tucked in his as we enter the room.
“That may be, but it’s a little disconcerting when you say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“As though you’re dangling me in front of them like a cut of meat.”
Eduardo chuckles, a lazy smile on his face that draws the notice of the vast majority of the women in the room. If they didn’t hate me before, showing up on the arm of one of the season’s most handsome bachelors certainly won’t do me any favors.
“I really did miss you when you were still in Cuba,” Eduardo murmurs, his manner affectionate and indulgent, giving the impression that we are either old friends or lovers.
Eduardo left Cuba before we did, before President Batista fled the country on New Year’s Eve, abandoning us to Fidel’s hands on New Year’s Day. I always wondered if all the money Eduardo had slipped people throughout the years gave him advance warning that Cuba’s fortunes were about to shift.
“Most women I meet these days spend their time flattering me,” he adds, grinning. “It’s exhausting, really.”
I stifle a snort as I tear my gaze away from his and scan the crowd.
My breath hitches.
A pair of blue eyes bore into mine, and Eduardo is momentarily forgotten.
There’s no fiancée tonight, or if there is, they aren’t the sort of couple to dangle on each other’s arms. More likely than not, she’s at another more respectable venue like most unmarried girls of good families. It’s that kind of party.
Nicholas Preston is just as handsome as he was last night, wearing a suit instead of a tuxedo, his skin hale and tan against the blinding white collar.
Polite society comes to Palm Beach during these winter months to escape the harsh temperatures farther north, and it’s easy to envision Senator Preston hitting the links with the Kennedys in the early-morning Florida sun, or walking along the sandy beach in the waning hours of the day. He gives the impression he is happiest doing something: either behind the helm of a sailboat, gripping the stick of a plane, on the back of a polo pony brought down from some tony estate somewhere, or with a racket or club in hand, ready to thoroughly trounce his opponent.
I stand next to Eduardo while he greets our host, the heir to a newspaper fortune whose family is immortalized in the Social Register, which serves as my mother’s unofficial bible as she pores over the names, searching for an eligible man to which she can affiance one of her remaining unmarried daughters.
Nicholas Preston’s gaze follows me, lingering over the bare skin exposed by my gown, Eduardo’s hand on my body, the point where our flesh meets.
When Eduardo leads me onto the makeshift dance floor, a shiver slides down my spine, the weight of Nicholas’s stare unsettling, the curious looks from the rest of the guests pointed. Have they noticed the attention I’m drawing from Nicholas Preston’s corner of the room? Or are their stares merely a reaction to the sight of Eduardo and me together, the manner in which our dark features complement each other, the familiarity with which we move a confirmation of their suspicions that I am Eduardo’s mistress or something equally tawdry?
“He’s going to ask you to dance,” Eduardo predicts before releasing me into a twirl.
I peek over his shoulder.
Nicholas Preston is still watching me. Goose bumps rise over my arm, the twirling making me just a bit dizzy. Or perhaps it’s everything else tonight: the man, the subterfuge, the want curling inside me.
The thing is—I want Nicholas Preston to cut in. I want him to cross the ballroom and ask me to dance, and I want to pretend I’m just a twenty-two-year-old girl, the girl I used to be.
I only want to dance with him. Fine, maybe flirt a bit, too.
The song ends without me glancing his way again; it’s a Herculean effort, considering I feel his attention on me as surely as a physical caress. Eduardo was right; he does watch me.