He doesn’t answer, but then again, he doesn’t have to.
Another smile. Another dent in his cheeks. “I’ll bet you left a trail of broken hearts behind you.”
I shrug, registering how his gaze is drawn to my bare shoulder.
“A proposal or two, perhaps.”
“Rum scions and sugar barons, or wild-haired, bearded freedom fighters?”
I laugh. “Let’s just say my tastes are varied.” I turn so it’s no longer just his profile that’s visible to me. “I kissed Che Guevara once.”
I can’t tell who is more surprised by the announcement. I don’t know why I said it, why I’m sharing a secret not even my family knows with a total stranger. To shock him, maybe; these Americans are so easy to scandalize. To warn him that I am not some simpering debutante, that I have done and seen things he cannot fathom. And also, perhaps, because there’s some power in it—the lengths to which you will go to secure your father’s release from Guevara’s hellhole of a prison, La Caba?a. It makes a good story, even if I inwardly cringe at the young girl whose hubris made her think a kiss could save a life.
Whatever arrogance I had, Fidel whittled away.
“Did you enjoy it?” Golden Boy asks, his expression utterly inscrutable, a clever and effective mask sliding into place. I can’t tell if he’s scandalized, or if he feels sorry for me; I far prefer their scorn to their pity.
“The kiss?”
He nods.
“I would have preferred to cut his throat.”
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch at my bloodthirsty response.
“Then why did you do it?”
I surprise myself—and perhaps him—by going with the truth rather than prevarication.
“Because I was tired of things happening to me, and I wanted to make things happen for myself. Because I was trying to save someone’s life.”
“And did you?”
The taste of defeat fills my mouth with ash.
“That time, I did.”
The problem is that the wave of power brings another emotion with it, the memory of the life I couldn’t save, of a car screeching to a stop in front of the enormous gates of our home and the door opening, my twin brother’s still-warm, dead body tumbling to the ground, his blood staining the steps we once played on when we were children, his head cradled in my lap while I sobbed.
“Is it as bad as everyone says?” he asks, his tone gentled to something I can hardly bear.
“Worse.”
“I can’t imagine—”
“No, you can’t.” I take a deep breath, the cool night air filling my lungs, staving off the panic creeping toward me. “You have no idea how fortunate you are to be born in this time, in this place. Without freedom, you have nothing.”
He doesn’t take his gaze off me, the solemnity in his eyes speaking to the sort of man he is. The understanding there surprises me and gives the impression that, despite the differences in our nationalities and stations in life, we might be more similar than I originally thought.
“And what would you tell a man with only a few minutes of freedom left?” he asks.
“To run,” I reply, my tone wry.
A ghost of a smile crosses his face, but it’s obvious he isn’t buying what I’m selling, and I like him a bit better for it, for seeing past the facade.
“To savor the last few minutes he has,” I answer instead.
I know a thing or two about cages.
He nods as though he can read the truth in my answer.
Who is he?
Part of me wants to ask his name, but my pride holds me back a bit. And if I’m being completely honest, it isn’t just my pride—it’s my fear.
Such luxuries have no place in my life at the moment.
I blink, only to be greeted by an outstretched palm, waiting for mine to join it.
“Dance with me,” he says, and even though the words are phrased as a command, the question contained there is what strikes me the most—that and the earnestness.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, cocking my head to the side, studying him, pretending my heart isn’t thundering in my chest, that my hand isn’t itching to take his.
“Now, why does that feel more like a challenge than an invitation?”
The music is a faint hum in the background of the evening, the notes drifting out onto the balcony.
“Will you dance with me, Beatriz Perez, kisser of revolutionaries and thief of hearts?”
He’s too smooth by half, and I like him far too much for it.
I shake my head, a smile playing at my lips. “I didn’t say anything about stealing hearts.”
He smiles again, that full wattage hitting me. “No, I did.”
Do I really even stand a chance?
He steps forward, obliterating the space between us, his cologne filling my nostrils, my eyes level with the snowy white front of his shirt. His hand comes to rest on my waist, the heat from his palm warming me through the thin fabric of my dress. He takes my hand with his free one, our fingers entwined, our bodies closer than I normally dance with men I don’t know.
What is happening to me?
My heart turns over in my chest as I follow his lead, as the music fills me. Unsurprisingly, he’s a natural, confident, elegant dancer.
We don’t speak, but then again, considering the conversation between our bodies—the rustle of fabric, the brushing of limbs, the fleeting touches that imprint themselves upon my skin—words seem superfluous and far less intimate.
The thing about collecting marriage proposals is that people assume you’re a flirt. And perhaps I was, once, long ago, but now, it feels unnatural to play the coquette. I am somewhere between the girl I was and the woman I want to be.
The song ends and another begins with far too much speed, the dance equal parts stretching for eternity and ending with a blink. He releases me with a subtle heave of his shoulders, the cool air between us, my fingers missing the twine of his, the shock of his absence surprisingly sharp.
I tip my head up to look into his eyes, steeling myself against the onslaught of flirtation that is likely to come, the invitation to lunch or dinner, the compliments about my dancing, the heat in his gaze. I have no use for romantic entanglements at the moment, even though part of me thinks I would very much like to be temporarily entangled with this man.
He smiles. “Thank you for the dance.”
A glimmer of something that might be regret flashes in those eyes—or perhaps it’s my own imagination—before he inclines his head and turns back for the ballroom.
I watch him walk away, rooted to the spot, my heart hammering in my chest, secure in the knowledge that he will turn around and look back at me.
He doesn’t.
I turn once he’s disappeared back into the ballroom, into the world where he clearly belongs. I stare at the swaying palms, at the water, attempting to get my traitorous heart under control. Minutes pass before I’m ready to return to the ballroom, to the glittering chandeliers, the harsh glint of the other guests. The world where I will never belong.
I pass through the balcony doors to find Isabel standing off to the side, Elisa nowhere to be seen.
“She wasn’t feeling well,” Isabel says when I ask about our sister’s whereabouts. “Juan took her home.”
A waiter approaches us with a tray of champagne flutes in hand, more waiters around the ballroom doing the same thing. A murmur resounds through the ballroom, whispers tucked behind cupped hands, names on everyone’s lips, the calm before a scandal breaks.
Curious as to the piece of gossip they’re all eager to seize upon, I scan the crowd, looking for Golden Boy, looking for—
He stands next to the orchestra near the front of the ballroom with an older couple and a woman.
Oh.
Oh.
There’s no point in dissecting her flaws, for I fear it would be a useless endeavor and do me no favors. It’s clear as can be that her family did hail on a great big ship at this nation’s founding, that she’s stunning with her blond hair and delicate features, the perfect complement to his golden looks. Her gown is the height of fashion, her jewels certainly not paste, a pretty smile affixed to her face.