Chapter
One
“Why, Veronica Keane.” A voice heavy with a Spanish
accent drawled from behind her. “A dive bar?” A taunting tsk. “What do we have? A slumming New Yorker?”
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 wouldn’t
fail to win this grant, not when she was a final contender. “I like this funky
little place.” Sia Macario Café, smack in the center of Havana, allowed her to
observe locals and their daily lives.
“You need to eat with all the mojitos you’ve downed.” The
big tease wasn’t counting. This was her
first drink, but his rumbling, sexy timbre hinted at all kinds of dark, hot
promises. She’d 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. “I ordered camarones enchiladas.”
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.
“The flan is good. Just like my abuela makes.”
“I bet. Your grandmother would be happy to hear that,”
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. He’d worn nothing but swim trunks, his bare chest on
display. Every glistening muscle was finely etched. Not a drop of fat on him. Since
he’d not given her the time of day, she’d 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. She’d 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 she’d 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 Malecón, had provided her with time to practice her Spanish.
Turned out Bela was Carlos’s grandmother. She’d 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, and…
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 bar’s edge. If it
weren’t for him, she’d have a chance at winning the grant.
No comments:
Post a Comment