My fingers wrapped around the windows and I rose on my toes to do what I always did when I visited Havana, peer into that deserted classroom and let the memories envelope me. The only way to hold onto my power was to remember what I had survived and how far I had come.
There, through the barred window I saw an upturned school desk…
Cuban summers brought stifling temperatures. My fellow students had grown used to the heat and rarely complained. As instructed, we remained quiet as we sat through our science exam, which I flew through with ease. My education back in America had been top-notch, and thanks to my nanny back in the States, I was fluent in Spanish. Looking around at my classmates, I saw that I was the first one to finish the test paper.
My motivation for speeding through the questions was Sister Mary’s promise that she would get a letter to my mother, so I stole a few precious minutes to write, tearing off paper from my notebook and beginning:
“Dearest Mommy,
Father Patrick says that you have decided not to visit.”
I had started it wrong.
I balled up the paper, lifted the lid of my desk and hid the evidence. Then I began again.
“Dearest Mommy,
I am being good and studying and Father Renaldo has given me a book of poetry that he thinks I’ll enjoy. I like the way the words sound. We play sports most afternoons though the other boys are rough. They like to win. My favorite class is chemistry. Father Renaldo says I will make a good scientist one day if I keep my studies up.
I miss you. Do you think it might be time to tell them what happened? I believe this would help. I want to come home.”
Raising my gaze, I saw Father Emesto stomping toward my desk. The short, fat monk, whose eyebrows met in the middle, didn’t seem to like teaching—or us, for that matter.
“What is that?” he demanded, looming over me.
The once quiet room was now swirling with the whispers of the other students.
“Silence!” Emesto ordered.
Staring up at him, I tried to gauge his anger. “I finished my exam, sir.”
He frowned. “Already?” He spotted my letter and lifted it off the desk to read it.
“It’s for my mom. I had some time left.”
He scanned the letter, scrunched it up and stepped back. “Pick up your test paper and come with me.”
Panic rushed through my soul. “Have I done something wrong, sir?”
Emesto reached for the scruff of my collar, dragging me out of my chair and down between the rows of students who were pretending to ignore us.
“Report to the Dean’s office,” snapped Emesto, as he pushed into the hall. “Tell him you were caught cheating.” He slammed the classroom door in my face.
With my paper in hand, I headed off to see the Dean, who I knew would be reasonable. He would see that my answers were honest.
Sitting in his stuffy old office, I waited on the other side of his desk as he reviewed my exam paper.
His gaze rose to meet mine. “This is one hundred percent correct.” He turned the paper for me to see.
“I studied a long time, sir,” I replied meekly.
He slammed his hand on the desk. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not, I swear.”
He pushed to his feet and rounded the desk, looming over me. “You are right-handed as far as I can remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put your left hand on the desk.”
I did as he asked and watched in horror as he reached for the ruler and raised it high.
The ruler snapped down on my flesh and pain shot through my fingers. I jerked my hand back and hugged it to my chest.
“Hand down,” he ordered. “No one cheats in this school.”
“But I didn’t, sir.”
“One more lie and you’ll be back in solitary confinement. Do you understand?”
No, not that…anything but that small, dark room where my thoughts consumed me and I was forced to replay every second of my life…
All the way back to that night at Bridgestone.
“Hand on the desk,” he repeated.
My gaze broke away from his fierce stare as a bell rang out. The other students were free to play outside, free to roam the library, or the playground, they were free to hide from the monks and be free of pain.
A rapping pulled our attention to the door, and Father Renaldo stepped in to the Dean’s office. He gave me a comforting smile and then turned his attention to the Dean.
“I heard what happened,” he said, his concerned gaze roaming over me.
“He’s refusing to admit it,” the Dean said tersely.
“Let’s give the boy a chance, Ari.”
“A chance to do what?”
“I have another test paper here. Let’s see how he does on this one?” He handed it over to the Dean, who studied it with an intrigued expression.
“This is for boys a year above his level.”
Father Renaldo nodded. “It will prove he has a gift for science.”
They set me up in the corner of the Dean’s office, at a desk that was too high for me. I barely reached it. My hand felt like it was on fire, but I tried to ignore the pain as I read the questions and answered each one.
This exam was harder than the test I’d just finished, and I cursed the letter I’d written for my mother. That bad decision had caused this. Had I merely sat there quietly going over my answers, I wouldn’t have a bruised and swollen hand now. Or the threat of going into that room, alone, for days.
Within an hour, I had completed the exam. I sat patiently and watched Father Renaldo and the Dean read over my answers.
Father Renaldo’s gaze rose to meet mine, and he said to the Dean, “I have a friend at Eton. He’s the right age.”
“Would his mother approve?” asked the Dean.
“His mother gave us full authority,” said Renaldo. “Let me see what strings I can pull. Astor would do well at such a prestigious school. He’s advanced.”
The Dean turned his fiery glare back on me. “How’s your hand?”
“Fine, sir, thank you, sir,” I replied, lying for the first time.
“No more writing letters home,” he said. “Your mother has been through enough. Am I clear on this subject, young Beauregard?”
Father Renaldo’s eyes glinted with kindness as he conveyed to me that the right answer was “yes.”
I did not return to America for many years. And when I did, time had wedged its way between me and my family. Though there had been a benefit in that grand education. So, all in all, this shell of a place no longer mattered. Soon this property would be mine, and I would tear down these walls.
And maybe, just maybe, quiet these inner ghosts.
With that comforting thought, I strolled down the cobbled street glancing at the new storefronts that had sprung up and the bright smiles of the locals who valued life and love and all that flowed between.
A flower shop caught my attention and I went inside.
I made my way back through the revolving door of the Hotel Inglaterra and paused to chat with Sergio, the concierge, and asked him to arrange dinner for two to be sent to my room. He told me the chef’s special was the snapper, but I was in too much of a hurry to decide.
Raquel was a rare treat I would allow myself for now, and though there remained suspicion surrounding her, I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of her company. Her demeanor was refreshing and I could sense her vulnerability. I knew firsthand what it was like to fight my way through the chaos.
Once Raquel admitted what she was doing at my company, I might even forgive her.
Inside the elevator, I lifted the bouquet of flowers I’d bought for her and breathed in the scent of bougainvillea, perfect for the woman whose layers were seemingly endless.
The elevator doors opened.
Raquel stood there looking disheveled and full of confusion, clutching her handbag to her chest.
“What’s wrong?” I steppe
d out and faced her.
“I thought…”
Realizing what she meant, I pulled her against me. “Raquel, I would never have done that to you.”
She trembled and I hugged her tighter. I deserved her doubt after I’d walked away from her at the harbor, but surely all we had shared since had given her some comfort. Our intimacy had been astounding and our chemistry was unquestionable.
I stepped back and offered her the flowers. “For you.”
She accepted the bouquet and brought them to her nose, breathing in the heavenly scent. “They’re beautiful.” Her hands were shaking.
“Come inside.” I reached into my pocket for the keycard and waved it before the lock. Giving the door a push, I ushered her inside the room.
Her questioning stare told me she still wasn’t convinced. I was incapable of giving her what she had needed above all else… a sense of trust. I shouldn’t have left her alone in the room, but those haunting memories had found me and I hadn’t been able to sleep. A late night meandering stroll usually cleared my thoughts and inspired me, though this time the loneliness had clung heavily.
She inspired me, and seeing her affected by my actions brought on a wave of doubt that I would ever be what she needed.
“I’ve ordered room service,” I told her. “Hungry?”
“Not really.” She lowered the flowers to her side. “Can we go back?”
“If you wish.”
“You have a shower on your yacht?”
“Of course.” I looked around to make sure we didn’t leave anything behind. “Want to talk first?” I offered.
“No, people are expecting me.”
“Who?”
“Friends.”
I stepped back, realizing she was frightened. “Back to the boat, then.”
Cuba faded into the distance as we headed out to sea on the speedboat. She sat clutching the flowers while I held the wheel in a white-knuckled grip, tight-lipped and feeling uncertain.
We made it back to the Riveting just after 2:00 A.M.
It wasn’t just Raquel’s beauty that captivated me; it was her serenity, her enduring calmness.
And I’d scared her.
Back on the yacht, I offered her my private cabin so she could freshen up. After thirty minutes I went to check on her, needing to know I hadn’t caused her too much distress. The room was empty and I heard her moving around in the bathroom.
Raquel appeared in the doorway with a towel wrapped around her body and her hair wet and dripping over her shoulders.
I stepped forward. “What do you need?”
“My dress.” She pointed to where it lay on the bed.
I reached for it and handed it to her.
She seemed to read my expression. “I had fun, Astor.”
It was the way she spoke my name… “Are you sure?”
“Of course. We’re both adults.”
Raquel gave me an endearing smile. She moved closer and rose up on her toes, giving me a sweet, gentle kiss.
The friend kiss.
“I may have pushed you too far,” I admitted.
She winked. “You’re forgiven.”
“Was there any of it you enjoyed?”
“You’re right,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I need to be more spontaneous. No one was hurt and I got to see a bit of Havana.”
She looked beautiful standing there, trying to behave as though she needed no reassurance that we could be more after the mind-blowing sex we’d had.
She raised her dress. “I just need a few minutes.”
I turned to head out. “We’ll be docking soon. Are you okay to drive?”
I looked back at her and saw a smile flit across her face at my obvious concern. I cringed inwardly at the thought that this woman had me caring about what happened to her after she left my presence.
I hesitated before leaving. “May I ask for your discretion?”
She looked worried. “Oh, no. I’ve already posted the details on Instagram about how we got it on in Cuba. And your dick pic is setting off a Twitter storm.”
Damn her for making me chuckle.
“This never happened,” she whispered.
“Right.”
I left the cabin to let her get dressed. One more second in that cabin and I would’ve been tempted to take her again.
I had made the wrong moves at the wrong time—and now there was no going back to salvage what could have been between us. Anyway, we were oceans apart.
It was over.
The harbor’s lights reflected off the water, welcoming us back to the mainland. I exhaled a shaky breath, realizing how much last night had affected me. Raquel had breached my defenses and all I could think about was burying my face between her thighs and tasting her again, having her arch her back and scream my name.
Like she had last night…
This never happened.
For some reason those words stung more than they should.
ANOTHER CASUALTY OF DIVORCE, OTHER than having your heart shattered into a trillion pieces, is the loss of your friends. I reasoned they felt they had to choose between me and Damien, and as he was the master chef who wowed during our late night dinner parties, he’d effortlessly stolen the show and them along with it. Throw in a celebrity girlfriend and I didn’t stand a chance as the ex who has a thing for smells.
So when Taylor Lee, my new friend from The House of Beauregard, invited me to a weekend market with the promise of open stalls, live music, and the flow of Caribbean coffees, I took her up on the invite to Clearwater.
The Sunday drive to the country club was pleasant and the weather a perfect blend of sunny and breezy. I could never drive past one of the many lakes and not wonder if an alligator was lurking beneath the surface, but most of the wildlife wasn’t as scary. Seeing pelicans do a fly-by over my car gave me a rush of happiness.
Today would be fun and it was good to get out.
Taylor was the first person at work to befriend me, and as Mr. Beauregard’s executive assistant I figured she’d be an asset. When the time was right I’d casually lead the conversation around to Astor.
She didn’t need to know about Havana.
That would remain my deepest, darkest secret, which I replayed when I was alone with nothing but time during the quiet hours of the night.
Nothing had changed with my plan, even after that passionate rendezvous. Astor had avoided me since…or maybe it was me avoiding him. I’d not searched him out at work to ask about the mutual project he wanted us to work on. It was better this way. It meant I could take the time I needed to research the lab and snoop at will.
I was destined to hate him, and that amazing, mind-blowing sex had merely been a detour on my way back to my old life. Though very little of my old life had survived.
Astor had been kind of fun, actually, with his dimpled smile and that intense stare that made me tingle. It had been his alluring cologne that had seeped into my consciousness and forced me to let my guard down. He’d been a scent trap I’d fallen for.
Never, ever, again.
Yes, the passion had been the most incredible I’d experienced, but when you were dealing with a playboy who’d had plenty of opportunities to practice his talents beneath the sheets it was a given he’d be great in bed.
Memories flooded in and made me blush.
I’d been so quick to leave Cuba and so willing to deny myself any more pleasure—but in my defense I wasn’t meant to be there. It was clearly the intimacy I’d been craving, and now that it was quenched I could move on and forget him.
Chewing my lip, I wondered if Astor liked to dance. Not that I cared, not really. Had we liked each other differently I may have brought it up in conversation. Not sure why I was even thinking about it now.
Still, thoughts of him made it easier to cope with my divorce.
Perhaps I should move away. Colorado Springs was my first choice, with its romantic setting at the eastern foot of the Rocky Mountains. I loved the snow in w
inter and the beautiful way the leaves changed in the fall. Though Florida had the warm, sunny days covered and this state had been my home for years. If I did leave I’d miss the ocean views, palm trees, and my beloved wildlife. I mean, where else could you watch fish jump out of the water at sunset, or see curious dolphins trailing alongside your boat?
I’d have to make sure I stayed away from the places that brought the kind of memories I wished would fade. Damien and been my first, and with those edgy tattoos he had intrigued me enough to say yes to a date when my gut had screamed no. And all that followed was me not listening to that small inner voice.
As I drove through the country club’s crowded lot looking for a place to park, I realized the knot in my stomach had eased. I was being brave enough now to analyze where we’d begun so I could better understand how we had ended, and for some reason it felt less painful. That gut-wrenching ache was easing.
I parked and strolled toward the market with a bounce in my step.
The hustle and bustle of locals and tourists gave this place a family atmosphere. Crossing the street, I headed toward The Breakfast Club Café.
Taylor was sitting in a corner booth. She rose to wave and then pointed to the coffee she’d bought for me on the table. Her bobbed hair and soft make-up made her look pretty. She was thirty, maybe, and had swapped out her snazzy business suit for ripped jeans and a leather jacket.
When I saw her helmet I gave her an impressed grin. “Where is it?”
She pointed through the glass window at the red Ducati. She was always full of surprises, like that time I learned she loved anything British. I suppose that’s how we bonded in the first place—me bringing in English candies for her to try and us chatting about which British TV show was our favorite.
I’d decided to wear a spring dress and sandals so there was no way I’d be hopping on the back of her motorbike anytime soon. “Go, Taylor,” I said.
“It’s exhilarating.”
“I bet.” I glanced at the coffee she’d bought me. “Thank you. Am I late?”
“No, I’m unfashionably early.”
“Well, on that thing you probably arrived before you left.”
Perfume Girl Page 10
