The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(55)

Every so often, he excuses himself to go check on details for my eventual escape, and I find that I miss his company even during the short intervals when he is gone.

“I brought you some clothes to wear,” Carlos announces as he enters my room Saturday evening. “This will go much easier if you are dressed as a boy.”

“They’re still out there looking for me, aren’t they?”

He nods.

I doubt they’ll give up until they’ve recaptured me.

Carlos’s presence has done much to distract me from the danger of my situation, but he hasn’t been able to fully eradicate the fear inside me.

“What if they catch me?”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“I can’t go back there. I’d rather die.”

I don’t regret the choices I’ve made so far, or the fact that I never recanted my story about Berriz, but now that I know what awaits me in prison, now that I’ve tasted even this small amount of freedom, I know with every part of my soul that I would choose death over returning to that hell.

Carlos reaches out and takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, squeezing gently. “I know. I promise you. I won’t let anything happen to you. I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

He steps forward, wrapping his arms around me, fitting me against his body. There is nothing untoward in his embrace even as I know how wholly inappropriate it is for me to be with a man like this, but given the fact that my reputation lies in tatters already, I don’t care. It feels good to lean against another after being on my own for so long, and at the moment, I’m not sure there’s anyone I trust more in the world, given all he’s risked for me.

Carlos strokes my hair while he holds me, whispering to me that all will be well, that he won’t let anything happen to me, that I will be safe, that I have escaped, that I will be free.

He releases me and stands before me for a moment, studying me. And then—

“I’ll leave you alone to get changed. We need to depart soon.”

The clothes he originally brought me sit bundled together on the couch.

Once he’s gone, I undress quickly, changing into the items he brought.

I look like a young sailor in the blue shirt, trousers, and flowing tie. Carlos thoughtfully supplied a large slouch hat for me as well. It takes several tries and the use of pomade to plaster down my hair so it fits under the hat.

If I don’t succeed in altering my appearance, then I’m sure I’ll be recognized, given how much my image has been splashed all over the newspaper.

“Will this do?” I ask Carlos when he reenters the room.

A smile tugs at his mouth. “Almost. Here, this might help.” He reaches into a humidor in the sitting room, drawing out a fat cigar. “May I?”

I nod as he hands it to me. Our fingers brush as I take it from his hands and lift it to my mouth. My fingers tremble slightly as I inhale the familiar tobacco scent that lingers faintly on him.

“Better,” he replies. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I suppose you can ever be for this sort of thing.”

“I’ll be with you every step of the way,” he promises.

“But not on the boat.”

“No.”

I think I hear a note of sadness in his voice, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s grown as fond of me as I have of him in the short time we’ve spent together. For so long, I was friendless in the world, and in the hours we’ve shared together, the friendship that has sprung up in such difficult circumstances has meant a great deal.

I give an embarrassed little laugh. “You must think me foolish, but I will miss you.”

“Not foolish at all. I will miss you, too. Your presence here has brightened the house considerably. If you could be safe here, I wouldn’t want you to leave.”

My cheeks heat, and I stare down at my feet, unable to conjure up a suitable response, until the words escape as if of their own volition—

“If things were different, I imagine this is the sort of place where I could be very happy.”

We’re both silent as we leave the room together, and as eager as I am to leave Cuba and the threat surrounding me, there is a part of me that wishes I could stay ensconced in this room forever.

Carlos takes my hand, leading me through his home, and I commit all the little details to memory—the paintings hanging on the wall, the settee, the polished wood floors—so that when there is an ocean between us and I have occasion to think of him, it’s here, safe in this home he clearly loves.

He stops before the front door and releases my hand. For a moment we stand still, and then Carlos leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my cheek.

My skin tingles in his wake.

“All will be well,” he promises, and he opens the front door, the sights and sounds of the city intruding on this refuge we have created.

I take a deep breath as we walk outside, steadying myself, my cheeks flushed from the innocent kiss he gave me.

A gust of wind comes, lifting the hat from my head and sending it fluttering to the ground.

Beside me, Carlos tenses.

Heart pounding, I reach down and pick it up, settling it back over my dark hair.

I wait for someone to call my name, to recognize me, but no one does.

From the corner of my eye, I spy Karl Decker nearby, his hand near his hip where a gun is seated. The other men who have helped me occupy various positions on the road, their bodies alert and tense.