The Cuban Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim Rodriguez

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S.

  Copyright Act of 1976,

  no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  Omnific Publishing

  2355 Westwood Blvd, #506

  Los Angeles, CA 90064

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  First Omnific ebook edition, April 2018

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, April 2018

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,

  is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Rodriguez, Kim

  The Cuban / Kim Rodriguez – 1st ed. isbn: 978-1-623422-55-4

  1. Miami—Fiction. 2. Cuba—Fiction.

  3. Romance—Fiction. 4. Rich woman —Fiction. I. Title

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Book Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Rafa, for coming to life.

  CHAPTER ONE

  On the penultimate night of my cruise to Panama, I opened the wardrobe and found my new favorite dress, a black, long-sleeved, off the shoulder ball gown that had been a present from my older brother. The couture Valentino had shipped directly from the new flagship boutique in Rome, a museum-like space so opulent it could’ve been carved from Michelangelo’s Tuscan marble quarries. I knew it well.

  The card read, “Dear Amanda, I saw this dress at a fashion show last month and thought it would look fantastic on you. Happy Birthday, Kieran.” The gown was magnificent, a romantic tapestry of nude-colored silk beneath black Italian lace, featuring a tight corseted bodice that masterfully counterbalanced the full, floor length skirt. It fit like a glove, and as I turned to admire myself from the back, I let my hands glide down the lace over my breasts to my waist, appreciating its provocative architecture. Knowing the dress didn’t need much else, I ran my fingers through my long honey-blonde hair and applied a bit of makeup, then grabbed a simple black clutch and slipped into matching Gucci stilettos, silently thanking my thoughtful, albeit mostly absent brother, even though my gut told me he hadn’t chosen it. The man who bought this dress is in love.

  I made my way to the formal dining room and found it alight with sound and activity, pausing a moment to read the sign beside the oversized mahogany double doors: “Caribbean Night on the Ruby Welcomes Conjunto Matanzas, a Celia Cruz Tribute Ensemble.” I snaked through a crowd of beautifully dressed passengers, all the way down the dark corridor to the threshold of the main salon, an already opulent space artfully decorated for tonight’s celebration as a technicolor tropical paradise.

  My palms sweat and my heart fluttered as the beat of the drums pounded, my body awakened by the drama of wailing horns and the grandeur of a live Cuban orchestra. I smiled as I passed by the large stage overflowing with tuxedoed musicians, all of them focused on a short, round woman in a beaded cocktail dress and blond pageboy wig, a shameless vixen who shook every part of her voluptuous body while belting out sultry foreign lyrics into the microphone. At the close of the final verse, she held an impossible note, veins in her neck straining until her last breath, then threw her arms up in the air and cried out ¡azucar! The crowd went wild.

  The singer’s crimson gown exploded around her knees as she was possessed by the music, and out of nowhere, a dark, sexy musician emerged from the shadows and pulled her across the stage, his tight, violent grip forcing her up against him. They exchanged a knowing look as his hand dropped to pull her pelvis into his, both of them swirling their hips together to the rhythm, eyes bewitched. Hypnotized by the energy in the room, at least a dozen couples rose from their tables to join the crowd of flushed, panting dancers already on their feet, every man and woman seduced by the carnival atmosphere and sensual Cuban music.

  Our head waiter Ernesto spotted me before I approached the table. Smiling and beckoning me closer, he edged his way between the crowded tables, asking for my hand by extending his own. I reached out, glad to see a welcoming face. Although Ernesto had to have been close to seventy years old, it was clear he’d once been a very handsome man, with kind eyes and the whitest, fullest head of hair I’d ever seen.

  “Good Evening, Ms. Rose,” he said. “You look ravishing—just like a movie star.” His eyes shined as he took in my appearance and then, with a slight bow and a grand flourish, he produced a single-long stemmed pink rose. I couldn’t tell where he’d kept it hidden, but I imagine the trick must have been one of the many skills the dashing Ernesto had perfected over the years.

  “A rose for Miss Rose,” he poeticized, clearly amused by his own wit.

  “Thank you, Ernesto,” I said. Pleased, he pulled a black velvet chair out from beneath the medium-sized table for six. I inhaled the scent of the rose as I lowered myself into the plush seat, and even though we both knew I’d pay for the rose a hundred times over in the tip envelope at the end of the week, it was still nice to pretend. I set the flower down beside my clutch on the crisp white tablecloth and offered my tablemates a polite hello.

  Ernesto had been kind enough to seat me preferentially, facing the stage, so my attention went back to the band. The singer, breathless from dancing, returned to the microphone as the lively music came to an end and the room thundered with applause.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began in a thick Spanish accent, “as Celia Cruz says, ‘please excuse me, you know my English is not very good-looking!’” She paused, knowing exactly where her joke would get the big laugh. Right on cue, the audience erupted, and in appreciation she blew a kiss to the crowd. “Please enjoy your food with the romantic music of Trio Palmera and I come back later and we dance again!” Backing away with a coquettish wave and more kisses, she held her dress up and descended the backstage steps.

  “Rafa, double Russian Standard Gold, neat!” Ernesto barked out the order somewhere over my shoulder, clapping his hands. “Quickly, for the lady with the rose. Rápido, muchacho! Pa’ la señora que tiene la rosa.” I’d only had to ask Ernesto for my drink once the very first night, and after that, he kept my double vodkas coming. He was just doing his job, yet his attentiveness still resonated somewhere deep inside me.

  I reluctantly turned my attention to the others, now knowing them well enough to be certain we had nothing in common. Every night this week I’d struggled to make conversation with the mismatched group, an adult mother and daughter from Boston, a cute retired California couple, and a wealthy red-headed divorcée in her sixties from Miami. The divorcée, Sharon, zoned in on me right away, desperate for conversation.

  “So, Amanda, how did you like the jungle today?” she asked, fingering the dainty Harry Winston Sunflower bracelet on her wrist. I’d seen it just last month in New York, quite beautifully displayed in a window, but now it struck me as gaudy and cheap-looking on her wrist.

  “I didn’t feel well,” I said. “I had to come back to the ship early and rest.”

  “The heat,” said Sharon, with a certainly that led me to believe she knew her way around much more than I realized. “My—friend—told me the crew never gets off the ship here.” At the mention of a new acquaintance, I braced myself for what was coming and took another little sniff of my rose.

  “Well, I stayed in,” she said, bringing her martini glass up to her glossy red lips, “but I had a great time. Four great times, to be exact.” She gave me a wink and took a sip.

  “Ah. You had company.”

  Past any formalities on this topic, I’d
been hearing about Sharon’s romantic interludes all week. She must have felt some sort of single woman camaraderie with me, because she hadn’t hesitated to share the details about all the men she’d slept with on her vacation, mostly members of the ship’s crew. I began to feel awkward, and shifted in my seat, wishing for my drink, beyond happy to cut the conversation short when Trio Palmera took the stage.

  As the first few notes of the Cuban son washed over me, a translucent veil fell upon the room like a memory, softening my vision and disbanding reality. It was a lovely sensation, and without any real reason, something shifted. Everything became more colorful, musical notes sounded sweeter, and for the first time in so long, I was at peace. I questioned why I’d ever tortured myself with frantic trips to European castles and museums when everything I needed was here on the water, in the air of the open ocean.

  “Su bebida, señora.” Your drink, ma’am.

  A man’s deep voice came from behind, unbearably close. His breath lingered on the sensitive skin of my neck, his words crashing against me, two hands without a body. No one had ever spoken to me in my ear, not even a lover, and I came alive. Anticipating the brush of his jacket against my shoulder, I froze, fighting the instinct to move toward him.

  He leaned in from the left to place the cocktail on the table. First, I saw the black of his jacket, then the white of his shirt, and finally a Roman nose far more beautiful than any artist had ever sculpted. My body softened and my pupils dilated, my brain instantly high from whatever wicked chemicals rushed my body, his light blue eyes probing mine as he set the glass down beside my flower. I took in as much of him as I could, marveling at his chiseled face, the dark unruly hair framing it, and the bit of stubble above and below his perfect mouth. Digging my fingers into the flesh of my thighs under the table, my body turned rigid as a board, and when his lips parted ever so slightly, it seemed for a moment he might lean in to kiss me right there, without so much as a hello first.

  Unable to withstand his gaze for more than a second, I found the spot on the glass where his hand had just been and drank deeply, and though the alcohol hugged me from the inside, for the first time its effect seemed pale in comparison to what I was already feeling. By then he was gone and I was glad, because one of us had to retreat or surely I would combust. I had just stared into the sun.

  “Holy shit!” said Sharon, mouth agape, barely able to contain herself. She leaned in, her generous cleavage spilling onto the table. “Did you see him? He was gorgeous!”

  Even though it was the truth, it bothered me that she was so worked up. In just a split second I’d sensed the vulnerability in him, the same kind of weariness carried by an animal that isn’t sure if you’re going to pet or kick it. I didn’t like to think of anyone being stalked by a sex-crazed woman all night, forced to put up with her antics for fear of losing his job. However, with that face it couldn’t possibly be the first time a woman fell apart at the mere sight of him. He would know what to do with her.

  “What did Ernesto call him? Rafa?” asked Sharon, giddy with excitement. “He sounded Cuban, and goddamn if those Cuban men aren’t something else in bed,” she purred, her chin resting against perfectly manicured talons. “I’d like to take him home with me.” Her big diamond rings glistened in the soft light of the dining room as she allowed her mind to conjure images of undulating, intertwined flesh.

  “That’s funny,” I said, actually thinking it was disgusting. Sharon’s unbridled lust of course reminded me of Plato’s charioteer analogy, and as the vodka kicked in I let my mind wander to happy places. In the Phaedrus, Plato compares the human soul to a charioteer and two horses, the charioteer representing reason, the white horse intellectual passion, and the black horse physical lust. Across the table I could almost see Sharon’s soul splintering into pieces, the white horse and charioteer half dead from being dragged straight into hell by a black stallion in heat.

  “Sweetie, I’m not joking,” she said, misinterpreting the smile that had crept across my face. “What do you think these young men are here for? They all want to meet a sugar mama.” She cocked her head to the side and batted her eyes in disbelief. “Not one single crew member has approached you this week?”

  “God no.” I’d never been propositioned by anyone, and I doubted it would ever happen. Men had a tendency to ignore me.

  “Well, they probably think you’re still too young and pretty,” she said, scanning the room for her prey. “And you don’t say much, either.” Her comment stung because I knew she meant I wasn’t very interesting, but by that time she was barely aware of me or our conversation anyway, so I ignored it.

  “Too young for what?”

  “To be single and rich.”

  Tired of waiting, Sharon grabbed her clutch and stood up like a woman possessed, pausing only to discreetly adjust the V-neck of her evening gown. There was no doubt she was a very attractive woman regardless of her age, and unlike me, Sharon would get exactly what she wanted.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the table.

  “Where are you going?” I asked. It was none of my business, but I had a good idea.

  “The ladies’ room, of course,” she answered, with mock exasperation. I wasn’t sure who she thought she was fooling, because there was no doubt she was going to roam around the kitchen until she found her next meal in the form of a gorgeous waiter named Rafa.

  With that, Sharon was off, and since the rest of my tablemates appeared lost in their own banal conversations, after the generous appetizer I decided I’d had enough. I just couldn’t relax knowing that at any moment he might come back, so I thought it wise to leave early. My delicate state of mind was already barely hanging by a thread, and the last thing I needed was something to upset my equilibrium and throw me into a mood that would be difficult to come back from. I’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  The night was lovely but cold, so I decided to stay inside and take the long way back to my cabin, passing the casino, the auditorium and the now closed shops. Walking the distance of the ship made me aware of the weight of my gown, and it struck me as a shame to waste such a beautiful dress on a failure of an evening. Unlike other people I knew, I judged success not by my possessions or wealth, but by the time spent enjoying the company of people I love. In that respect, I was very poor and had been all my life. I envied people who had large extended families to share holidays and life events with, and even when our parents were alive, they always traveled without us, leaving my brother and me with the nanny of the month. We had no real family left because my mother had been the only child of an only child, and my father’s only brother had died in his late teens. I can say that my parents were in love, but their affection for each other was often at the exclusion of other people, including their children. When they died together overseas, Kieran and I barely noticed.

  Since then, it had mostly been just us, my workaholic brother, and me, his shy, intellectual little sister. In later years, my one chance at a family had gone horribly wrong, and I made it my mission to pretend it had all been a bad dream. I longed for the day Kieran would find the right girl and start a family of his own, because now our only comforts were the vast wealth we’d inherited, the family business that Kieran ran for us both, Boxwood Paint, and each other.

  It was almost midnight and I began to feel sleepy, so I entered the darkened library and cut across the deck to my suite. The sounds of laugher and noise gradually faded as I made my way deeper into the ship, nearing the sanctuary of quiet, secluded cabins. Looking down into my clutch for the room key, I turned the corner slowly, eyes down, and stood in front of my door fumbling, annoyed at the possibility I might have to go all the way back to the front of the ship for assistance.

  “Damn,” I muttered, trying to find the card.

  Just then, I heard a man clear his throat. I looked up to see him—Rafa—leaning against the handrail about ten feet away. He had a slight smile on his beautiful face, and he stood in a way that was so cool and leis
urely, I thought perhaps he had mistaken me for someone else.

  “Hello,” he said in a Spanish accent so thick I could barely understand even the single word. He wore the elegant tuxedo from earlier but looked nothing like a waiter; he was absolutely chic, like a model straight out of an Italian fashion magazine. He remained in his spot by the rail, about ten feet away from me, and even though I should have been scared of him, I had to admit it was the opposite.

  “Have you lost your … key?” It took him some effort to come up with each word, clearly struggling to translate the ideas in his head as he spoke to me. He was working hard on all fronts, and despite the obvious language barrier, his warmth poured through me as it had earlier at the table. There was no fear, only the same incredible pull toward him again, and this time I wasn’t sure I even wanted to resist.

  “No, I found it,” I said softly, feeling the slick card between my fingers. He remained perfectly still, and it was then I realized he wouldn’t move until I either went to him or told him to leave. We both stood in the quiet hallway of the ship, Rafa in his tuxedo and me in my designer gown, in awe of how two complete strangers could fall into such immediate intimacy. There was nothing around us, no music, no people, and no distractions, only the clarity of the bright lights above and the subtle hum of the ship’s engine. We saw each other plainly in the light, each of us thoroughly lucid, yet absolutely intoxicated and not pretending otherwise. It was as if the universe gave us a quiet moment to recognize one another, so as we lazily took each other in, unrushed, I came to the conclusion that he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Perhaps not perfect, but perfectly assembled.

  A million scenarios ran through my mind. Maybe I’d inadvertently made him think I was looking for casual sex, or Sharon had said something to suggest I was alone and desperate. But even if he only wanted me in bed for an hour, I didn’t think I’d have the will power to turn him away. When a man looks like he was sculpted in Heaven’s atelier, a woman can only spend the rest of her life regretting all the things she didn’t do with him. The little smile on his face turned into a wonderfully sexy scowl, and sensing my indecision, he took his hand from his pocket and held it out to me.