even ordered the bike in the first place. Coming to Cuba required both an effort of will and a secrecy he loathed but couldn’t avoid—his parents got so upset when he returned home. But maybe, subconsciously, he’d just wanted to make a point to himself that he could.
Besides, a motorbike was an easy way to top up his need for adrenalin, a need that he recognised, and embraced in those hours not spent pursuing global domination of the rum market.
And it had felt good—not just the spontaneity of kicking free of his schedule, but the actual act of bonding with the bike. His body and mind had been immersed in the angles of the road and the rush of the wind—and then suddenly she was there.
Like all accidents, it had happened too quickly for him to have any real sense of anything beyond the bike slip-sliding away from him, the earth tilting on its axis, a glare of sunlight and a blur of trees, and then the noise of metal hitting stone, followed by silence.
Even before he’d looked down and seen the blood he’d known he’d hurt himself, but he’d had enough injuries to be able to differentiate between those requiring a Band-Aid and those that needed a trip to A&E. And anyway, after the first shock had worn off he’d been more worried about her.
She’d been so agitated and upset that he had deliberately angled his body away from hers so that she wouldn’t see the blood—only then she’d fronted up to him, like a skinny little ginger cat, and he’d forgotten all about his arm.
Nothing had mattered except wiping that dismissive uppity sneer from her mouth.
Preferably with his mouth.
He felt his pulse jerk forward.
Careful, he warned himself. She might be beautiful, but he didn’t need another lesson in the pitfalls of acting on impulse—and by that he didn’t mean taking a bike for an unplanned road test.
Her eyes were wide with panic. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘It’s fine.’ He held up his hands placatingly, and then regretted it as a drop of blood splashed onto the pale dirt.
‘How can you say that when you’re dripping blood everywhere?’
She was looking at him as though she’d seen a ghost. For a moment he thought about telling her about the other times he’d come off a bike, but it might backfire and make her panic more. And anyway, it was private. All of it was private. His pursuit of precision, the transcendence of the everyday and that heightened awareness that came with being at one with the machine. How could he explain what it felt like to lose all sense of himself—his past, his position as CEO, all of it—in the heat and speed of the ride? Why would he want to explain that to her?
He glanced past her back down the empty road. Why was she even here? On her own. She was just a tourist and now she was in the middle of a drama. No wonder she looked out of her depth.
It made him feel both irritated and protective. And then he felt angry with himself for feeling anything at all. Feelings—his in particular—were dangerously unreliable. He had the scars to prove it. And he wasn’t talking about the ones on his body.
‘Look, nothing’s broken. It’s just a graze.’
‘Even if it is you should still get it checked out. It’s not worth taking the risk.’
His jaw tightened. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her exactly who he was, and that this was his estate and she was trespassing, and therefore the risk was all hers. But that would only confuse matters further.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a professional opinion?’
She glared at him, her chin jutting upwards. ‘I don’t have a car, but I could call an ambulance.’
An ambulance?
Frowning, he shook his head, contemplating all the time-consuming and unnecessary complications of such a step. ‘Absolutely not. It can wait until I get home.’
Forehead creasing, she took a step forward. ‘I don’t think you should wait. What happens if you feel dizzy, or the bleeding won’t stop?’
She hesitated, and he could see the conflict in her eyes—doubt at what she was about to suggest fighting with a determination to do the right thing. A long time ago he too had been just as transparent and easy to read. But he’d learnt the hard and humiliating way to keep his feelings hidden, or better still to avoid them altogether.
Her grey eyes rested on his face. ‘Look, we can walk the bike back to my villa. It’s not far from here. I have a first aid kit and I know how to clean a wound. At least let me take a look before you do anything else.’
So she lived nearby. He wondered where she was staying. From memory, he thought there were a couple of villas beyond the woods, but it seemed an odd place to choose as a holiday home. Most of Havana’s visitors liked to be nearer the city centre and all the regular tourist attractions. But there was something about this woman that made him think that perhaps she wasn’t here for the Malecón, the Gran Teatro or the Plaza Vieja.
So why was she here?
The answer shouldn’t matter, but for some reason it did. Before he had a chance to wonder why, he heard himself say, ‘Okay. You can take a look at it. But no ambulance.’
The walk to her villa took less than ten minutes.
Inside, she gestured towards a comfy-looking sofa. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you a glass of water.’
Sitting down, he felt a sense of déjà-vu. It was exactly the kind of traditional Cuban cabaña that his grandparents had grown up in, only theirs had been home to at least ten people. Not that they’d seemed to mind. For them—for his own parents too—family was everything.
He shifted in his seat, the ache in his chest suddenly sharper than the ache in his arm. He knew that his mother and father were proud of how he had built up the business, and grateful for the comfort and security he had given them, but what they really wanted—what would make them willingly give up their luxurious lifestyle in a heartbeat—was a grandchild they could spoil. Not that they said so, or at least his mother didn’t, but he felt their hope every time he mentioned a woman’s name in passing.
His stomach twisted. Children required parents, and typically that meant two people who loved one another, only that just wasn’t going to happen for him. Maybe the right woman was out there somewhere, logically, statistically, he knew she must be. But no amount of logic could counteract the fact that he didn’t trust himself to choose her, not after what had happened with Celia.
‘Here.’
She was back. Handing him a glass, she sat down beside him with a bowl of water, a towel and a large plastic box. When she’d told him she had a first aid kit he’d assumed she meant something she’d picked up at the airport. This, though, looked on a par with the kits at the distillery.
‘You’re very well prepared,’ he said softly.
He felt her tense.
‘It’s just the basics.’ She glanced up at him accusingly. ‘You should probably have a kit on your bike.’
In fact he did have one, and he was on the point of telling her that, but he was suddenly too distracted by the way her beautiful red-gold eyebrows were arching in concentration as she rummaged through the box.
Pulling out a packet, she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, then dropping to the shining patch of crimson on his upper arm. ‘I need to see if it’s stopped bleeding.’
‘Okay.’ He nodded, but he was distracted by a glimpse of her feet. She had taken off her shoes, and there was something strangely arousing about her bare toes.
Pulling his gaze away, he glanced back up at her face.
A trace of pink coloured her cheeks. ‘So I need you to take your shirt off,’ she said huskily.
*