When We Left Cuba(10)
Constantly.
Eduardo leaves me by myself in a corner with a wink and the promise to return with champagne. Thirty seconds later—
“Dance with me.”
My brow rises at the smooth voice, the confidence contained in those words, as I fight to keep a smile from my red lips. I like him better for the fact that he, too, treats this as though it is little more than a foregone conclusion, as if we are two magnets drawn to each other, his arrogance tempered by the weight of his gaze on me all evening.
“Your asking has lost some of its polish. What was I before, ‘thief-of-hearts,’ wasn’t it?”
He smiles. “I didn’t think my charms worked on you.”
I can’t quite formulate a response to that one.
“People will talk,” I say instead.
“Yes, they will.”
“It’s an election year.”
He laughs. “It’s always an election year.”
“And you are an engaged man.”
“I am. But have no fear, I won’t lose my heart over a dance.”
I grin, returning his verbal volley. “But I might.”
A dimple winks back at me as he offers me his hand. His fingers are momentarily unencumbered by the weight of a thick, gold wedding band. “Then we will just have to risk it, won’t we?”
I hesitate.
I wasn’t merely being coy earlier. I walk a tightrope when it comes to my reputation.
And still, I can’t summon the energy to deny myself this pleasure.
I place my hand in his, my fingers threading with his fingers, our palms connecting.
There are whispers; there are muffled gasps. Ironic, really, considering we’re surrounded by men and women dancing with partners to whom they aren’t lawfully wed.
But if I’ve learned anything in this past year, it’s that there are different rules for those who were born into this enclave, and interlopers like me. If Andrew’s proposal last night bothered them, tonight is likely to drive them to apoplexy. In the social hierarchy of the Palm Beach set, there is no higher an unmarried—or married—woman can reach than Nicholas Randolph Preston III. His is the lead they all follow.
He knows it, too.
He appears impervious to the looks, the wagging tongues, nary a hitch in his stride. At the same time, it’s impossible to miss the way his breath catches as his hand settles on my waist.
“Are you enjoying yourself tonight?” he asks.
I cock my head to the side, studying him while we dance. “Are we to have polite conversation now?”
“Would you rather we had impolite conversation?”
“Perhaps. What exactly would that entail?”
“I imagine it would start and end with your dress.”
I flush beneath said fabric. “It is a very fine dress.”
A dress Marilyn Monroe herself would be proud to wear, formfitting and decadent, perfect for highlighting the abundance of curves God gave me. My mother barely approved of the dress, her concern for gossip warring with her need to marry her daughters off with military-like precision. Pragmatism won out over propriety, as it so often does.
“Are you trying to steal my heart?” His expression is one of mock alarm.
“Only a little bit,” I tease.
My gaze drifts to the other guests before returning to my partner. “Considering the way we left things last night, I thought you were angry with me.”
“I don’t think we’ve known each other long enough to be angry with each other.”
“True,” I acknowledge. “It occurs to me we’ve actually never been properly introduced.”
“Then let me rectify that immediately. My friends call me Nick.”
I turn the name over in my mind, savoring the sound of it, the private side to a very public man. How many women have used the moniker with him? Have known the casual side of him?
“Are we to be friends?”
“Something like that.” His gaze turns speculative. “You seem to have other friends here tonight.”
It’s impossible to miss the question wrapped in those words.
“Eduardo is more like an old, dear family friend. Almost like a brother.”
Almost, but not quite.
“With similar interests, I presume?”
It’s easy to forget the man before me is more than the golden facade, that he sits on powerful committees in the Senate. Eduardo wasn’t wrong; Nick Preston would make a powerful ally.
“Are you trying to get me to spill all my secrets?” I ask.
“Hardly. In my thirty-seven years, I’ve learned the art of patience. I have a feeling your secrets are best unwrapped one by one.”
“I didn’t realize you were so old.” Etiquette is momentarily forgotten as I seize on that important fact and ignore the unmistakable hum of interest lingering in the background of our conversation. No wonder he’s eager to marry.
“Is thirty-seven old these days?”
“It is when you’re twenty-two.”
He smiles. “See. My first Beatriz secret.”
“My age is hardly a secret.”
“Perhaps. But it is something about you, one more piece to the puzzle. Besides, I have a feeling you’re an old soul at twenty-two.”
“I don’t think you can live through a revolution and lay much claim to innocence afterward,” I agree.