The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(75)

“You’ve thought about this a great deal, I see,” he replies.

“I’ve always known I didn’t wish to marry.”

“Always?”

“Well, I suppose since I was old enough to start thinking of such things. I saw the marriage my mother and stepfather have, and I couldn’t imagine myself in such a situation.”

“You like your independence.”

“Of course.”

“And you think that if you love someone else, you won’t be able to maintain it?”

The word “love” enters the conversation with as much subtlety as one of the fireworks exploding overhead.

Rafael lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “You should see your face. I said ‘love.’ I didn’t utter profanity.” He shakes his head. “It would figure, wouldn’t it? And I thought I was the most marriage-averse person in the city.”

I wrap my arms around me, wishing I’d worn a slightly thicker coat.

Wordlessly, Rafael reaches into the pocket of his coat and hands me a flask, his initials engraved on the exterior.

“What’s in it?”

“Whiskey. It’ll warm you up.”

I hesitate.

“Otherwise, I’ll have to do the gentlemanly thing and offer you my coat, and if I stand out here in this damn weather in my jacket and shirtsleeves, I’ve no doubt I’ll catch the death of a cold.”

His lips twitch as though he injected the “damn” just to prove his point about the word “love” evoking a strong reaction from me.

I take the flask from him, lifting the cold metal to my lips. Belatedly, it occurs to me how intimate such an act is, that his mouth once grazed the same place, but I take a swig, the liquid sending a heat of fire down my belly.

“My grandfather was a cigar maker in Cuba. Did I ever tell you that?”

I shake my head.

“My mother worked as a seamstress.”

His gaze slides to my outfit; even though it isn’t flashy, my coat is finely made, though hardly on the same level as his.

“And now you’re one of the kings of New York,” I reply.

He smiles just a touch ironically. “The American Dream.”

“It’s not your—your background,” I say, lest he think I care which ship from Europe his family hailed from over a century ago or whether they’re descended from Dutch settlers like mine.

I wait for a quip or one of his usual dry remarks, but he’s strangely silent, inviting me to fill the space with an explanation I’m not sure I know how to give.

“Even if I were interested in a romantic entanglement—”

His lips twitch.

“—our temperaments are too different,” I add.

“And you should like to be with someone exactly like you?”

“I would like to be with someone who shares my view of the world, if I would like to be with anyone at all. I’m quite content on my own, though. Truly.”

“Content sounds awfully boring. As does your idea of the perfect relationship.”

“I didn’t say it was ‘perfect,’” I protest. “Simply that if I had to entangle myself with another, it would be nice to be with someone who shares my interests.”

“Interests like politics? Current affairs? And what was it you said about the word ‘nice’ when you complained of me using it to compliment you at the opera?”

“You delight in mocking me, don’t you?”

He laughs again, the sound having a little more bite than it did earlier. “Believe me, if anyone is the subject of mockery here, I believe it is me. Divine mockery, to be sure. Why wouldn’t you want to be with someone who challenges you? I’ve never known you to choose safety over adventure.”

He turns from me, walking on, and for a moment I am torn between the urge to stay exactly where I am and to follow him.

It is one thing to pursue professional advancement, to put it all on the line for my career, and another thing entirely to do so with my personal life.

I lengthen my strides to catch up with him.

Once we are side by side once more, Rafael slows a bit, matching his pace to mine, the knot in my chest loosening somewhat.

We walk in silence as the party carries on around us, and then I can’t help asking him the question that has filled my head many times since that night at the opera.

“That woman you were with. At the Metropolitan Opera House. She is very beautiful,” I say carefully.

“She is.”

I open my mouth to ask him more but close it again almost as quickly. It doesn’t feel as though I have a right to his answer, to ask him anything about his private affairs with women.

“Is there a question you’d like to ask me, Grace?” His tone becomes silky. “You can ask me anything.”

“No—I—Is she . . .”

I can’t make myself form the word.

“Are we lovers?”

I flush, tearing my gaze away from him, and nod.

“It’s none of my business,” I blurt out.

“Considering the conversation we just had, I’d disagree with you. We were lovers. Once.”

I can envision her in his arms, can see—

“We haven’t been for some time,” he adds. “But she’s a friend and she likes the opera so she uses my box occasionally.”