One Night in Havana
#34 in the City Nights Series from Tirgearr Publishing
by Kathleen Rowland
âWhy, Veronica Keane.â A voice heavy with a Spanish accent drawled from behind her. âA dive bar?â A taunting tsk. âWhat do we have? A slumming New Yorker?â
She stiffened and closed her eyes. She knew that voice and its owner, Dr. Carlos Montoya, a finalist like her, competing for the same damn grant at the biggest Cephalopoda conference of the decade. Her heart pitter-pattered against her ribs. To turn toward him would intimate distress, or worse yet, weakness. She wouldnât fail to win this grant, not when she was a final contender. âI like this funky little place.â Sia Macario CafÃ©, smack in the center of Havana, allowed her to observe locals and their daily lives.
âYou need to eat with all the mojitos youâve downed.â The big tease wasnât counting. This was her first drink, but his rumbling, sexy timbre hinted at all kinds of dark, hot promises. Sheâd rubbed shoulders with the Cuban scientist all week. This splendid specimen of Latin male brought on a physical ache that punched low.
A flare-up stirred fear. For her own good, she needed to resist. âI ordered camarones enchiladas.â By now she knew the menu on the chalkboard by heart. She tipped her head back to whiff grilled shrimp soon to arrive in sofrito sauce with fried sweet plantains.
âThe flan is good. Just like my abuela makes.â
âI bet. Your grandmother would be happy to hear that,â she said, knowing he brought out the best in most people. Two days ago he'd invited her and a handful of others scuba diving. The chance to ogle him had been one of the perks. Heâd worn nothing but swim trunks, his bare chest on display. Every glistening muscle was finely etched. Not a drop of fat on him. Since heâd not given her the time of day, sheâd checked him out without him noticing.
The hard-bodied host had led the way toward habitats of soft-bodied creatures. To find where invertebrates lived was never an easy task. Octopuses squeezed into narrow passages of coral for protection and gave females a place to keep their eggs. Sheâd discovered the remains of a few meals nearby.Octopuses scattered rocks and shells to help them hide.
This grant meant so much to her and no doubt to him as well. Veronica mindlessly toyed with the gold necklace around her neck, but anxiety crackled through her brain. Unlike this man of action, she lacked the flamboyant personality necessary to talk people into things. Carlos had that ability. He'd made friends with judges on board while sheâd conversed with an older woman about a box of scones made with Cuban vanilla cream.
That day the wind had picked up to a gale force, and this woman named Bela with Lucille Ball red hair needed help walking to her home. The half mile down the seaside promenade, The MalecÃ³n, had provided her with time to practice her Spanish. Turned out Bela was Carlosâs grandmother. Sheâd worked as a maid when the Castro government came to power. When private homes were nationalized, titles were handed over to the dwelling occupants. Bela owned a crumbling home in the respected Verdado district and rented out rooms.
What Veronica detested about Carlos was his abnormal level of talent for schmoozing. Not that he wasn't charismatic; he drew her like a powerful magnet with emotions hard to untangle. Why was a self-assured woman who ran her own life thinking about a man who commanded everyone around him?
She inhaled a breath and turned around on the barstool, caught fast by a gut punch of Carlos Montoya in the flesh. She sighed and surrendered to the tendrils of want sliding up between her thighs.
Tall and muscular, his lush dark hair curled to his collar giving him a wild, roguish appearance. His face was lean and chiseled. His mouth full and tempting. His eyes the smoky-gray of a grass fire and fringed with black lashes as dense as paintbrushes. He smiled. A faint hint of mockery curved his mouth, a sensual mouth she imagined to be either inviting or cruel. Or both at the same time when he leaned over a woman with a diamond-hard gleam in his dark eyes while she drowned with pleasure. She fought a fierce desire to run her hand across his broad chest, tip her face upward, andâ¦
His breath tickled her face.
Not going there. She blinked and forced her mind to focus. Carlos Montoya was not the kind of man you lost focus around. But that image of putting her mouth full on his and peeling away his shirt once introduced in her mind was impossible to expunge. Pointless even to try.
He was an intimidating blend of intellect and sexy danger. Both qualities had her leaning back against the barâs edge. If it werenât for him, sheâd have a chance at winning the grant.
His lips twitched. âYouâre staying on one of the cruise ships, am I right?â He rolled up the sleeves of his linen jacket to reveal a dusting of manly hair.
âYes." Her cabin served as her hotel room while attending the January meetings with perfect high-seventies temperatures. His eyes locked with hers. She willed herself to move and yet she remained seated, clutching heat between her legs, a wetness so intense that her breath stalled in her chest while her heart hammered faster. Soon sheâd return to freezing New York City.
âSo, Bonita, give.â He slid onto the bar stool next to her. âWhat brings you down from a lofty ship to grace us lowly Cubans with your presence?â
Bonita. Pretty lady was not an endearment coming from the mouth curved in a taunting smile, but not a slight either. Not with his deep, melodic voice speaking words as if he knew secrets about her. What secrets did he know? Would he pry into her personal life? She doubted this bad-boy college professor acknowledged boundaries.
âJust drinks and dinner.â She scrambled for composure. âArenât we attending a world-class conference? I find the local population to be friendly and kind. Thatâs not slumming.â
The bartender set down a saoco. âHope you like it, senorita.â
âGracias,â she said. âVery nice, served in a coconut.â
âAh, the saoco,â Carlos said. âRum, lime juice, sugar, and ice. The saoco,â he repeated, disbelief heavy in his words. âUm. Wow. Once used as a tonic for prisoners of the revolution.â
âMedicinal?â She couldnât help it. She chuckled and sounded as if a rusty spoon had scraped her throat raw, but it was genuine. The warm glow in its wake was welcome and needed. .
He leaned an elbow on the bar, his beer bottle with the green-and-red Cristal label dangling between his fingers. âBe careful with that one.â He dipped his head toward the front door as if he needed to go somewhere soon.
That fast, the glow snuffed out. She cleared her throat and gripped the fuzzy surface of the coconut container.
He placed a five-peso coin with a brass plug on the counter and whirled it. The spinning motion mirrored a dizzying attraction going on in low parts of her belly.
She cleared her wayward mind and nodded toward artwork on the opposite wall. âI plan to buy a painting tonight.â
âDonât buy anything unless the seller gives you a certificate. Youâll need one to take art from Cuba. Artists deal in euros in case you donât have pesos.â
Sheâd come prepared but said, âThanks for the info.â
His coal-black eyes widened as he gazed from her head down to the tiny straps around her ankles as if she wore high heels and nothing else. âYou give off a Barbie doll image,â he replied and stood up.
âWhereâs Ken, anyway? Kenneth Morton. He came with you to the talks in Antarctica. Five years ago.â He grinned, and the mortification in her belly gave way to a longing which she had no business feeling toward her competitor.
âKen and I broke up.â She hesitated for a moment. âYou have a gift for remembering names. Like a salesman.â
âA personâs name is, to that person, the most important and sweetest sound. Back then I introduced myself to Ken in the menâs room.â
âI remember now. Didnât you give a talk on a specialized pigment in the octopus?â
âAhh, si.â He splayed his fingers over his chest. âA pigment in their blood isââ
ââcalled hemocyanin. Turns their blood blue and helps them survive subfreezing temperatures. Were you awarded something?â
âThe antifreeze protein grant? No. It went to a deep-diving photographer. He wasnât chicken about getting lost or trapped under the ice.â
She slid from her stool and strutted around, jutting her chin in and out like a chicken. âBock, bock, bock, bock, bock, begowwwwk.â
He chuckled. âCute chicken dance. Very cute in that skimpy black dress.â
Her cheeks heated, and she clutched her necklace. Heâd seen plenty of women in body-fitting attire. In Cuba, women wore dresses to meetings. If she'd harnessed sexier mojo, sheâd have livened up presentations. Her presentations with an abundance of dull data went south. She slid back against her stool and clutched her purse to her stomach as if the small satin bag could calm the nerves playing deep down kickball. She belonged in her tidy New York office filled with computers, modems, and research manuals. Not in this softly lit cafÃ© where passion oozed from a manâs pores, and artists displayed their canvases. Here was where Havanaâs trendsetters congregated, and Ernest Hemingway wrote about desire.
âGood luck with your purchases, Veronica Keane.â
Okay, so they werenât going to pretend they were going head to head for the grant.
As if he had more to say, he grinned at her, his perfect white teeth flashing.. âDo you find us different, like apples and oranges?â
âWhat am I, an apple or an orange?â
âHmm. Youâre an apple.â He was doing that sexy voice thing which made her brain shut down. Heady.
It started with an unexpected spark, an instant attraction, the jolting jab of oh-Iâm-feeling-something. Something like a flashfire in her belly, but now they were talking. âAm I the apple of desire? Want to take a bite out of me?â She pulled in a breath. Had she really said that?
âBonita, do I ever.â
âTomorrow is the final ceremony.â Would she watch him walk to the podium to accept the grant?About the Author:
Book Buyers Best finalist Kathleen Rowland is devoted to giving her readers fast-paced, high-stakes suspense with an erotic love story sure to melt their hearts. Her latest release is One Night in Havana, #34 in the City Nights series.
Kathleen also has a steamy romantic suspense series with Tirgearr Publishing, Deadly Alliance is followed by Unholy Alliance. Keep an icy drink handy while reading these sizzling stories.
Kathleen used to write computer programs but now writes novels. She grew up in Iowa where she caught lightning bugs, ran barefoot, and raced her sailboat on Lake Okoboji. Now she wears flip-flops and sails with her husband, Gerry, on Newport Harbor but wishes there were lightning bugs in California.
Kathleen exists happily with her witty CPA husband, Gerry, in their 70âs poolside retreat in Southern California where she adores time spent with visiting grandchildren, dogs, one bunny, and noisy neighbors. While proud of their five children whoâve flown the coop, she appreciates the luxury of time to write.
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