Consequences Of A Hot Havana Night. Louise Fuller

him had stirred his hunger.

      So what if she had?

      It had happened, and it had been incredible. Better than incredible, he thought, his heartbeat jerking as their tangle on the sofa replayed inside his head. And he wasn’t going to pretend that he wouldn’t willingly pull her back onto that sofa and carry on where they’d left off. Or deny that she was attractive, or that he was attracted to her. But whatever this was—this thing he was feeling, this unruly, insistent enchantment that had sneaked up on him unannounced—he wasn’t going to act on it again, no matter how hollowed out with longing he felt.

      In fact, his unprecedented physical response only increased his determination to stay cool and detached. For he’d already made the mistake of trusting his body before, and his libido had been proved a poor judge of character.

      He glanced down at the scars that ran across his chest and down his muscled abdomen. They might come from a different kind of foolhardy behaviour, but they were honestly acquired, and not the result of emotional weakness or self-delusion.

      There would be other women, and next time he would look where he was going.

      A breath of cool air drifted over his skin and, leaning forward, he took his trousers and shirt from her outstretched hand and started to get dressed.

      In his experience, women normally tried to extend this moment. It was one of the reasons he always preferred to find somewhere neutral to meet. But this woman hadn’t even wanted to know his name, and having sex with him didn’t appear to have changed that fact.

      It was a completely new experience for him—one that in theory he should welcome. And yet he found himself feeling slightly aggrieved by her lack of curiosity.

      But then in some ways—although he wouldn’t make a habit of it—his anonymity, and hers, was actually a bonus. For the first time in his life he’d had sex with a woman who didn’t know or care who he was and, weirdly, he found himself trusting her more because of that.

      This hadn’t been some carefully planned attempt to seduce him. Nothing was fake. She hadn’t told him she loved him or that he was special, nor made any promises. They had both got what they wanted and now they could get back to their lives.

      He buckled up his belt and began pulling on his shirt, ignoring the slight tightness in his arm as he pushed it into the sleeve.

      ‘Is your arm okay?’

      Looking up, he felt his pulse slow. A lock of that glorious red hair hung loosely across her forehead, and he had to stop himself from reaching out and smoothing it away from her face.

      ‘Yes. Good as new.’

      Holding his gaze, she gave him a small stiff smile. ‘I’m glad.’

      There was a moment of silence, and then she cleared her throat. ‘Look, I don’t really know what’s normal for this situation. I don’t usually do this kind of thing, you know—’

      He waited a moment, then shrugged. ‘Me neither.’

      Watching the tic of tension along the curve of her jaw, he knew for certain that he’d got under her skin. What was less certain, though, was why that mattered to him.

      She flushed. ‘Okay, well... I’m sure you’ve got things to be getting on with.’

      His hand stilled against the top button of his shirt. In other words she wanted him to leave. She was kicking him out.

      ‘Of course.’ He felt a twist of irritation, followed by a sudden intense need to dictate the terms of their encounter. Deliberately slowing down the buttoning of his shirt, he glanced assessingly round the room. ‘Nice house,’ he said slowly. ‘How did you find it?’

      Her eyes met his. ‘It came with my job.’

      He felt a ripple of disquiet. ‘What job?’

      She frowned, not at his question but at the terseness in his voice that he hadn’t bothered to disguise.

      ‘I work for Dos Rios—you know, the rum. You might have heard of them.’

      His chest tightened. Dos Rios had a policy of providing temporary accommodation for consultants and overseas contractors. His PA would know the details, but obviously he wouldn’t have been notified. The comings and goings of his employees was way below his pay grade.

      ‘I should do,’ he said. ‘As the business was founded by my family.’

      He paused, watching her face as he let his words sink in.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      The colour had drained from her cheeks. She was staring at him in confusion.

      ‘I—I didn’t—I don’t...’ She was struggling to speak.

      ‘Understand?’ He finished her sentence. ‘Then perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is César Zayas y Diago.’

      * * *

      In the still, tense silence that followed his remark, Kitty felt her insides loosen. ‘No, you can’t be,’ she said hoarsely.

      Her stomach was in freefall.

      It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be, she thought frantically. She’d been in the labs only yesterday, and surely somebody would have said something about his imminent arrival.

      He must be lying.

      Only her skin felt suddenly too tight, her heartbeat too loud, and as though she was looking at him for the first time she registered the tiny pleats at the top of his shirtsleeves; the expensive dark suit trousers and the handmade black leather brogues.

      His eyes rested on her face and she felt a prickle of heat spread over her skin as he held out his hand.

      ‘I assure you I am.’

      His voice had grown cooler, its authority no longer like quicksilver beneath the surface but smooth and inflexible like high tensile steel, and with a pang of acceptance she knew that he was telling the truth.

      There was only one thing to do and, feeling her breath ricocheting against her ribs, she took his hand and shook it briefly.

      His eyes raked her face and then he smiled. Only it wasn’t the slow, languorous smile of her imagination. Instead it was cool and assessing and uncompromising. The smile of a CEO...the smile of a boss.